


All For A Kiss

by DustToDust



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-17
Updated: 2015-03-21
Packaged: 2018-03-07 21:57:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 31,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3184649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DustToDust/pseuds/DustToDust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>21 <s>drabbles</s> things for the kiss meme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Firm Kiss [Dorian/Cullen]

**Author's Note:**

> Also, because there's an anon(s) going around Tumblr getting irritated over the gay stuff in the Cullen tag. I need to put more gay/bi Cullen stuff in the tags.

The problem lies not solely within himself, Cullen realizes with the sort of abruptness that comes with all true epiphanies.

It is not that Cullen can spin himself up into a nervous wreck tripping over his tongue and rubbing the back of his neck raw while trying to utter a simple greeting. It's not that he cannot think of the right way to segue from idle talk into the more personal inquiries he dearly wishes for. Not that he gets so lost in the graceful flow of an arm --from shoulder to finger tips-- arcing through the air like eddies of water forming complex figures to emphasized the almost musical words being uttered that he forgets he's supposed to say something back. It's certainly not the fact that Cullen is very sure he _wants_ far more than what is offered on occasion with flippant remarks that appear to be almost subconscious.

It doesn't help, certainly, but it is not the only reason why Cullen feels he's unable to reach out to Dorian. 

For all the lack of care he proclaims to have for it, Dorian is nobility as far as his home country is concerned. He has that unique awareness of himself and how others perceive him that Cullen sees so often among those ranks. Cullen might be tripping himself up with his doubts and fumbling, but there is no way that Dorian hasn't noticed and correctly interpreted those moments.

Cullen knows it to be truth even as he thinks it. He remembers all the times he has almost said what he meant to say. The times when his words would hang just a shade too long and Dorian would blithely change the subject. His face showing neither concern nor curiosity at what Cullen might have said, and Cullen had been grateful for that each time. Had been equally grateful when Dorian stopped pointing out every red hot flush that crossed Cullen's face and passing a remarkably apt comment about the reason for it off as a joke. Ignoring and shifting attention away from Cullen's attempts at mild flirtation.

It would be easy to read the unspoken rejection in that. Easy and foolish, because Cullen's learned a great deal about the mage in their time together. Either playing a few games in the garden, or during the --frequent-- attempts by seemingly the whole Inquisition to pull Cullen out of his office when he's needed there the most. So Cullen knows that Dorian is not the kind of man who would turn a blind eye to the affections of someone in the hopes it will go away. 

He's far more likely to let them down if not interested, and if he were interested.... Well, Cullen's fairly sure Dorian wouldn't hold back and patiently wait like it seems he's been doing. Because Dorian is waiting. Cullen can't think of what else it is that Dorian is doing while Cullen makes a fool of himself in front of the man so very obviously all the time.

There are no more epiphanies, just a faintly nervous thread of hope, to brighten his thoughts as Cullen leans against his desk and allows his mind to wander. Turning the possibilities over and over. Arguing for one reasoning and then another. Doing absolutely nothing useful with his time and effectively setting him right back where he began.

It's almost a relief when the door he's been staring at opens and pulls him from his circular thoughts.

"Why, I do think you were expecting me, Commander," Dorian says with a smile as he strolls in from the East door. He takes in the office and Cullen's desk with a quick glance before fixing his gaze on Cullen. The man is wearing one of his lighter robes. The ones that he refuses to give up even thought Cullen knows he'll complain of being cold at least twice an hour wearing them.

"I've half a dozen urgent requests and three times as many reports to read. The odds of someone dragging me away so it can grow were assured before the fifth one came in," Cullen says, and that response is rote enough by now that it comes out smoothly. "What can I do for you, Dorian?"

"I need a poison taster," Dorian waves back the way he came from. Towards the main hall. He would mention the tavern by name otherwise. "Varric swears he has something that I must simply try, and I'd feel a lot better having someone with a hardier constitution on hand for whatever rot he's brought from Kirkwall this time."

Varric is fond of telling Cullen that he thinks too much. It's true, and is what makes him so very good at his work. Thinking each situation through to the very end -- _every_ possible end-- saves lives and wins them battles. It's a great skill to have for any commander. In life, it is not as much of an asset. 

"Commander?" Dorian raises his voice slightly. A bit of concern that doesn't show on his face at all as he waits. Poised on the balls of his feet like he does when danger is around and no one knows which direction it will come from.

"Nothing, that sounds," Cullen steps forward to lead the way out of his office and stops before he can reach for the door. He's doing it again. Thinking of every possibility, making plans and contingencies and fall back options that won't matter because Dorian will be gone before Cullen has them finished.

 _No_. He needs to stop thinking.

"Cullen?" Dorian steps up and the concern shows now as he looks him over closely. Looking.  
That familiar searching expression too many people turn on him these days when he's feeling a little done in.

"I'm fine, Just," Cullen laughs ruefully and rolls his neck a little, feeling it crack a little before he makes himself look Dorian in the eye. "I'm just thinking too much."

"Nonsense. Too many people don't think enough!" Dorian scoffs, and his voice is loud and bright with a joke but he steps back. One foot to put some distance between them. Nervousness, and Cullen thinks he could have another epiphany right now about the other half of the reason why he's not getting anywhere in this.

He could, but he'd much rather get past it.

When he's not thinking too much, when he's not planning or second guessing, it's easy reach out and cup the back of Dorian's head. Easy to pull him close and angle his head down, to press a kiss to his still lips. Soft and pliant with surprise that Cullen doesn't take advantage of just yet. It's an action meant to show intention, and the soft noise it draws from Dorian as he moves into it is an answer.

"I'm not the only one thinking too much," Cullen murmurs when he pulls back. Just the smallest bit so that he can still feel the the soft brush of Dorian's lips with each word. He keeps his hand on the back of Dorian's head even as he tries to pull back. "Don't. Unless you really don't want this..."

Dorian curses. Low and fluid under his breath, and Cullen's sure he can translate that if he wants to but Dorian's growling in frustration, "It's not about what I want!"

He doesn't pull away, and Cullen should probably question him about that statement. Should probably discuss this with him. There's a lot of things Cullen should probably do, but chooses to focus on the fact that Dorian doesn't pull away. Doesn't stop him when he pulls him into another firm kiss that is better than any words Cullen could have said.


	2. Jawline Kiss [Dorian/Cullen]

Dorian's skin is smooth and faintly scented from the spices of the soaps he uses. The ones he goes through great pains to find every time he leaves Skyhold. Cullen fancies he can almost taste it as he brushes his lips down the line of Dorian's jaw.

The man shakes with repressed laughter that Cullen only feels because he has his arms wrapped tight around his chest. Dorian's face is annoyed in the small mirror he uses for shaving when Cullen looks up. "If you're quite done

"I'm not stopping you," Cullen says with a small smirk. He feels the shiver in Dorian as the words are pressed into his skin. Cullen refusing to back off as he continues to explore the newly shaved skin with his lips.

"Yes," Dorian drawls. Dry as a desert and not making a move to lift the razor again, or push Cullen away. "I know you may think that, but I am not nearly suicidal enough to try and place something sharp so close to my neck while you have your hands all over me."

"You could skip shaving," Cullen suggests in jest just to see the way his face screws up with indignation. He shifts his head so he can drag his own jaw against Dorian. The razor clangs as it is dropped and Dorian sags against him just a little. "A little stubble isn't a bad thing."

"Not everyone can pull off the barbarian look," Dorian says. Light words with a dark voice that makes Cullen grin as the man turns in his arms. Forgetting the thin layer of soap still on his face as he pushes Cullen up against the wall to kiss up the column of his neck to his ear. "Some of us have a distinguished image to maintain. Granted, it takes me little effort as I am rather dashing, but some small pains must be tended to."

There's barely any hint of facial hair under the soap when Cullen reaches up to cup his face and pull Dorian away from his ear into a brief kiss. More tease than anything, because Cullen knows the promise of more will motivate Dorian like little else. "Small?"

Dorian grumbles about being misunderstood and being distracted, but that doesn't stop him from pushing Cullen back towards the bed.


	3. Gentle Peck [Varric/Cullen]

"Enjoying yourself, Commander?" There's laughter threaded through the words that slide through the chatter of the ball. Stuffy subjects with sly undertones and obnoxious titters that have been slowly driving Cullen mad. Varric's voice and presence is a very welcome change, and the man knows it going by his smirk. "That good, huh?"

The cup he holds up for Cullen is strangely shaped and expensive looking, but feels far more solid in Cullen's hand than anything else he's held so far. The drink inside is also heavy and bracing. Cullen takes a second, longer drink before turning a grateful smile on the dwarf. "Thank you, Varric. I am rather out of my depth here."

"It shows," Varric leans up against the wall next to him and gives a brilliant smile to a masked noble that Cullen's been watching inch their way down the hall towards him with a worryingly predatory gait. The noble, man or woman Cullen cannot honestly tell, pauses and seems stymied. "I hear his Inquisitorialness has been expressing some concern over the safety of your virtue."

"Don't remind me," Cullen groans. Maxwell has nearly been drawn into a duel once already as some foolish noble tried to fob off one of his four daughters onto Cullen. Cullen's politely horrified refusal had offended somehow and led the man to believe the Inquisitor was at fault. "I don't understand these people."

Cullen grimaces into his cup and shifts the slightest bit. His backside smarts from far too many questing fingers. They've been getting bolder as the event goes on, and Cullen's mostly sure he has bruises from the sneaky pinches he hasn't been able to dodge. He coughs to clear his throat and lowers his voice so that only Varric can hear him next. "I'm far more worried over them keeping their heads if they try again."

Maxwell had not been pleased, but it was Josephine who had been the most wrathful. Enough to escape her sister for a while and do something that earned Cullen almost an entire hour of rest from the prying questions and sly maneuvering of the Game that made Orlais so mad.

"They'll be fine," Varric assures with more confidence than Cullen feels. The noble is over their dismay and is making their way towards him again. Faster now, skipping every other person in the hall in a way they hadn't been doing before. "You'll be fine too, Curly. You done with that?"

Cullen blinks down at his cup and finds it empty. Regretfully. Varric plucks it out of his hand and places it on a nearby table before plucking Cullen's hand up in almost the same motion. The man's laughing inside, Cullen can see it through the wickedly amused glint in his eyes over his knuckles, as he presses a light kiss to his hand. A strangely delicate brush of lips that would be better suited to the romance stories so many tease the dwarf over writing. It's so strange that Cullen doesn't react at all to it for a moment.

"The thinkers have decided that you need a bodyguard to keep any more _incidents_ from happening," Varric is the very picture of courtly elegance as he bows a little over Cullen's hand. Mannerisms similar to what Cullen's observed during the ball, and he knows there's meaning there that he just doesn't know. The way the people around him seem to react gives him a fair idea, but Cullen doesn't care when their reaction creates space around him for the first time. "How about we go out into the gardens and get away from this crowd?"

"I would appreciate that," Cullen says with a sigh as Varric leads him away from the spot he's been a little terrified to move from alone. Fearful of finding himself in a small room with no way to escape easily without causing damaging offense. He feels a little like a damsel in distress with one of Varric's broad hands settled firmly against his lower back as a guide. His pride will smart for it later. Maybe. "As long as it keeps my bottom from being assaulted again."

"What? You think I'm a perfect gentleman?" Varric exclaims in mock dismay and Cullen stifles a yelp as the hand on his back moves low and gives him a firm squeeze. "You ought to know better than that, Curly."

Cullen feels his face flaming from the action he really should have expected and takes the relative seclusion of the stairs they're going down to try to throw an elbow at Varric's head. His arm is caught and Varric laughs, low but good natured, in time to press another kiss to his hand. In full sight of the nobles mingling in the open gardens.

"Yes," Cullen grudgingly agrees and follows Varric as he expertly keeps them away from the larger groupings. Anger completely absent because he does know Varric better and his ability to make light of almost any situation is something Cullen is grateful for no matter what the situation. "Better the leech I know than the ones I do not."

Varric laughs, and the event goes reasonably well up until the assassinations start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story of a roguish merchant prince sweeping a hapless knight off his feet would later go on to make Varric a lot of money in Orlais.


	4. Kiss Along the Hips [Anders/Cullen]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From an Au idea where: Cullen doesn't get tortured in Kinloch, the Warden takes him and Anders along to travel, and at the end they both get conscripted into the Wardens.

Having a bed again is still a novel concept. Though Cullen doesn't really have much opportunity to enjoy it. Things may be less dire now without an Archdemon around, but Darkspawn still lurk too close to the surface. Elissa has them out every other week. Keeping an eye on the areas that are known trouble areas. Where the access to the Deep Roads is wide open.

It's work, constant and hard. Leaving him little time to think, little time to adjust, and Cullen is grateful for it. The way the Darkspawn lurk and claw at the back of his mind is unsettling, and thinking about it --about how and why he can feel them-- does no good for his mind. Keeping busy keeps his mind from straying to that and other matters best left alone for his peace of mind.

Being busy is good, but Cullen still appreciates every opportunity he's given to stretch out on the soft bed that's _his_. The surface he's laying on dips under another weight. _Their_ bed, he silently corrects himself as he cracks one eye open.

The cat picks its way over his legs, purring faintly as it stalks back and forth. Looking for the best place to curl up and go to sleep. Cullen has no illusions about that spot being anything less than mildly uncomfortable for him. He'll wake up sometime late with pointed claws flexing in and out of his skin too. "Why does he always sleep on me?"

"You can't really blame him. You're usually the most comfortable thing to sleep on," the bed dips even further and long strands of blonde hair drag against Cullen's bare stomach as Anders leans down to affectionately kiss the cat. "Pounce is just used to it."

"Just Pounce?" Cullen asks dryly as he reaches down to gather up the ticklish strands of hair and pull it away from him. He pulls lightly on it too. Enough to make the mage smirk as Pounce settles over Cullen's right knee. The cat is getting heavy enough that Cullen knows his leg will fall asleep from that position later.

"Well, you are much better than the ground," Anders laughs as he leans up enough to place a smacking kiss on the sharp jut of Cullen's hip. Nipping just enough to make Cullen pull harder on the hair around his fingers in warning.

"I want to sleep," Cullen follows up on the warning, but it's already futile. Anders eyes gleam and his smirk grows as he crawls up Cullen's body, and the brush of skin makes Cullen's mouth go dry. "You know the Warden-Commander will send us back out in the morning. I wish to spend one night in bed before going back to a tent."

"You'll get a night," Anders murmurs and Cullen damns every sly joke ever made about Warden stamina as he feels himself stirring in interest that he knows won't die easily. "No reason to waste it all on sleep though."

Pounce makes an indignant growling noise as he's displaced and leaves the bed, but Cullen's too busy to see where the cat ends up sleeping.


	5. Hot, Steamy Kiss [Male Surana/Cullen]

Cullen doesn't go to sleep. He lays in his narrow bed, eyes open to the dark, and listens intently until the dark room is filled with a cacophony of snores. He waits a little longer, just to be sure that no one is aware enough to note him sliding out of his bed and into his boots. He leaves his armor and sword behind as he eases out of the barracks room.

The halls are dimmed but not completely dark. There is no time where the Tower is ever truly asleep. Somewhere, a mage is still awake and researching, and a templar will be near to watch and guard. Cullen moves quickly, with purpose so that if he is seen no one will put much notice to him.

He picks his pace up once he passes the lavatories. Speeding up to dart down a darker hall that leads to nothing but storage rooms. Cullen only slows once he reaches the last rooms. Not sure which of them he is actually looking for until he sees the left door is slightly ajar.

Alim jumps slightly as the door shuts behind Cullen's back with a loud sound, and his eyes are wide before he seems to note who is in the room with him. Then, his eyes seem to grow impossibly larger and the small envelopes of ingredients he's been sorting scatter under his hands. "Ser Cullen, I- Ah excuse me."

The newly Harrowed mage turns to quickly put the packets right again, but Cullen can see the flush running up the back of his neck and tinting his pointed ears even from the door. It sets his heart to pounding again like it had earlier when the mage had sought him out after his Harrowing. As it always does when Cullen is near Alim, but today it has been worse. So very much worse because today, for the first time, Alim had stayed beyond Cullen's customary attempts to keep the mage at a distance. 

Pushing on with the dogged determination that Cullen's seen him apply to a particularly difficult area of study. Use it to pull more words from Cullen than he's spoken to any mage yet, and fluster him to the point where he'd had to run or embarrass himself in the very open halls of the Tower.

Alim's words still ring in Cullen's mind, and it's on the tip of his tongue to ask the man if he meant them. He wants to ask but he knows he won't. Knows that as soon as he opens his mouth to talk he will be gone. Back out into the halls to slink either into the barracks again or spend the night on his knees in the Chantry. Praying for something he knows won't come.

"Can I help you with something?" Alim turns to ask and he's regained his composure. Unfair because Cullen's only composure around the mage has always been the shadows of his helm and silence. Neither of which he's had the use of lately. He's smiling, but there's enough of a touch of nervousness to ease Cullen's sense of unfairness. A touch of hope in Alim's eyes that is just enough to pull Cullen away from the door after testing to be sure it's closed.

Alim doesn't shy from Cullen's fingers on his face, only licks his lips in anticipation, and Cullen bends his head quickly before he looses his nerve. Alim is soft and pliant under his lips, and he wraps his arms around Cullen instantly. Angling his head until the sweet kiss devolves into something hard and burning. His tongue forcing its way into Cullen's mouth and stealing what little sense he had left with a muffled noise that Cullen _needs_ to hear again.

The table jumps as they fall back against it and Cullen aches for more even as Alim gives it to him. Their breathing is harsh and loud in the small room when they part and Cullen licks away the faint taste of lyrium from his lips as he looks down at Alim. The mage smiles, slow and wide, the same smile that has haunted Cullen for far too long as he threads one hand into the hair at the back of his head. Holding him still and slowly pulling him down. "Is this still inappropriate?"

"Yes," Cullen answers honestly and swallows hard because his voice comes out too rough and too deep. He can't bring himself to care about either matter at the moment though as Alim shifts under him. "Extremely inappropriate."

He doesn't fight against the insistent tug that pulls him back into another kiss though.


	6. Neck Kiss [Alistair/Cullen]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Assumes Warden died to kill Archdemon, Alistair stayed a Warden, and Stroud was the Warden you took with you to the Fade. Damn what the game said.

The Gray Wardens settle in as well as any other faction the Inquisition has absorbed. Uneasily and with enough minor crises to make Cullen want to run head first into the nearest, solid looking bit of wall. Repeatedly, until the urge to punch everyone he sees calms down. That it will ease and the conflict subside as the factions grow to know and respect each other is a minor balm.

"I'm not saying you're wrong," Alistair says as he shifts to lean back against one of Cullen's book shelves. Angling himself enough so the handle of his broadsword doesn't catch and bring the whole shelf down again. "But there _has_ to be someone better suited to the role than me. I mean that in the most literal sense. Pretty sure my dog can do a better job."

Cullen knows Alistair in small moments. He knows the boy who used to drive the older Templars and Brothers to heights of rage that Cullen has rarely seen again since the man was snatched away by the Gray Wardens. He knows fevered dreams of a voice and face so utterly unexpected amidst the madness of Kinloch Hold that he'd allowed himself to trust it. He knows a twisted version of Alistair as 'the Warden who lived' from the mouths of bards who wouldn't know the truth if it attacked them. He knows Alistair from infrequent --and very bizarre-- visits to the Gallows as the man looked for a place to rest his head for a few hours that wouldn't end up with him losing the thing to thieves.

Brief moments that taken together have apparently made them something more than acquaintances, but perhaps a little less than friends. Something that is just enough that Cullen hadn't thought twice of floating Alistair's name out when discussion grew tense over the issue of who would lead the Gray Wardens with Warden Stroud lost to the Fade. A recommendation immediately backed by Leliana, and ending with a group of scouts being sent out to find the man.

The dog in question lifts his head up from some unseeable trail to regard both men. He whines a little and it sounds questioning, before the scent has his full attention again. Watching the random trail the mabari follows, Cullen has an inkling of who --or _who_ \-- he's smelling, and resolves to check carefully for anything Sera might have left behind.

"Most organizations would be better off with mabari leading them," Cullen agrees easily and it gets a hearty laugh out of Alistair. The first since they'd set Cullen's books back to rights again. "Unfortunately, we're dealing with mostly Orlesians and they would not see the sense in it." Granted, the Gray Wardens are some of the most reasonable Orlesians Cullen has come across yet. The influence of the Warden's extremely open organization no doubt. "The Wardens are open to accepting anyone the Inquisitor appoints over them, but Leliana and I thought it best that leadership remain in the ranks so to speak. We're not a temporary organization, but the future of the Inquisition isn't all that clear. The Gray Wardens are far too important to Thedas to allow to fall if it is disbanded."

There is also the worrying lack of oversight and communication from Weisshaupt to contend with, and after Corypheus’ effect on the Wardens has been known that silence is more ominous.

"I don't suppose she considered Oghren at all?" Alistair says with a sigh as he places one hand on the back of his neck and cracks it. He winces at the sound and laughs a little. "No, don't answer that. Rhetorical question. She'd elect Schmooples for the position before him. I guess I can see why she'd think I'd be good."

Cullen blinks and worries that both those names sound familiar though he doesn't know why. He's almost afraid to ask.

"Alright, fine!" Alistair says with an explosive sigh that seems to come all the way out from his gut. He tries a smile but it looks like a grimace more than anything and Cullen actually feels a little cheered at it. Alistair's lack of enthusiasm speaks well for his viewing the position for what it is. A duty and responsibility. "I guess I'll do it. If they'll accept me. You know they wouldn't have just accepted anyone without question or testing, right?"

"The thought had entered out minds," Cullen says with a slight grin. It'd been unspoken, but communicated well in the guarded eyes of the Wardens. Bound to the Inquisition but holding tight to their autonomy and secrets.

A sharp bark interrupts whatever reply Alistair is gathering and Cullen turns his head just in time to see the dog --rear end wagging in excitement-- pull out a bag from behind a pile of books still waiting to be shelved in the right order. He has a split second to wonder what it is before the tell-tale sound of buzzing registers and the first of the small, angry bodies starts to swarm out from the disturbed nest.

"Maker no!"

~

"Bees," Cullen repeats hoping that he had in fact misheard it.

"Yes, bees! Deadly little things especially when there's so many of them!" Alistair glares at him and it's pathetic looking enough that Cullen starts to believe him. As if the swelling and blotchiness of his skin around the swollen areas was feigned. "You're laughing at me, aren't you? I know you are. Don't try to lie about it."

"No," Cullen pinches the bridge of his nose to ward off the headache that's threatening him and to block out the way Alistair looks. Pouting with his right eyes swollen closed and laid out in the infirmary bed. "I'm just coming to terms with the fact that our Commander of the Gray appears to be highly allergic to bees."

"Well, it's not like I go around taking swings at nests all the time," Alistair's one fully open eye gleams in a way that lets Cullen know he'd be grinning if his face were capable of it. The man always did seem to have the ability to laugh --loudly and heartily-- at himself. "I told you you'd regret this you know?"

Yes, but Cullen doesn't get the chance to correct the man as the door opens and more familiar voices spill in. He steps aside for the moment as the Inquisitor comes in with an indignant Sera in tow.

~

Alistair does not end the friction. His leadership is accepted by the Wardens, but the incidents still occur. It is easier dealing with them when he knows who to look for on the Warden's side though.

"Wait, there's a _well_ here?" Alistair asks with a look of astonishment. He spins to stride over to the edge of the battlements to look over the keep suspicion replacing his look. "Where?"

"Next to the stables," Cullen says and then adds pointedly, "In front of the building your office is in."

"Oh yeah," Alistair says slowly and looks embarrassed for only a fraction of a moment before he's shrugging at Cullen. "It's not like I use it much. Seems like too much effort to move, uh, Ser Barris out of his place."

Ser Barris had been more than willing to allow Alistair to work with him in the small room set aside for the Templars as it was his men that were having the most problems with the Wardens. He'd expressed interest in working with the new Commander of the Gray to resolve those issues. A resolve that appears to be entirely one sided. "Alistair..."

"Whoa, hey! I know that tone. You got that from Ser Ostin! He always used that tone when he caught be going through the pantry," Alistair grins, but there's an edge to it and Cullen can see he's standing straight. Feet planted firmly and shoulders loose in a way he's only ever seen them get when the man is getting ready to fight. "Look, it's really nice the Inquision set me up with an office and all. Real official stuff there. And I guess I can see why you'd want it to be the same room as Barris. Wardens and Templars can't seem to stop pulling each other’s hair around here, but," Alistair stops to take a breath and his jaw works from one side to another a bit. "But it really doesn't do me any good to have it."

"Go on," Cullen says after a longer moment of silence than is comfortable. Alistair is still looking out over the keep and seems to searching for something. Words probably. A miracle, as Cullen hadn't thought the man capable of not blurting out anything on his mind given a chance.

"There's a lot we can't -- _won't_ \-- share," when Alistair looks to Cullen there is very little of the joking man he is used to seeing there. Alistair looks at him with hard, dark eyes. The eyes of a Gray Warden who hears the nightmare cries of Darkspawn day and night, and fights the urge to chase them to his death every time. "They become issues we must conquer or fall to. We deal with it in our own ways, and our ways don't involve allowing outsiders to see us struggle. We're Gray Wardens, we can't be seen to struggle," can't be seen as mortal. Cullen knows well the power of stories of seemingly impossible to beat men. The gave look evaporates as fast as it came and Cullen finds himself facing a grinning Alistair again. No trace of the resolute leader he'd just seen on his face. "Besides, what would I do with an office anyway? There's the War Table for missions, and I can punish my men for dumping your Templar down the well just as easily in the court yard as in a stuffy office. What do you think about me making them clean the well in their smalls?"

"I think too many people would enjoy that," Cullen settles on saying. Neither denying nor condoning a punishment he knows full well is going to happen regardless of what he says.

~

"I feel old," Alistair exclaims one day. A chair has found its way into one of the corners of his office. High backed and cushioned, and Alistair seems to have decided he does in fact want an office. Cullen's office in particular. No one expects to find him anywhere else either, and Cullen has come to accept it. It is rather nice not to be alone with nothing but the endless stream of soldiers bringing him reports at times. "Do you have any idea what a novel feeling that is?"

"Feeling old?" Cullen asks. Baffled and amused, because he's always felt too old. From the moment he looked out over the Gallows and realized he wasn't happy. Not with his position and not with the Order. "No, I'm afraid I don't know."

"Hm, perks of being a Gray Warden," Alistair leans sideways in his chair to hold a piece of paper, darkened from something Cullen doesn't want to think of, up to the light. "I never thought I'd live long enough to feel old."

Cullen knows things about the Gray Wardens. Things most people would not know due to his rank and his past. He knows the Wardens have short lifespans, and he knows the rumors about why. The rumors of exactly _how_ short those lives are. Rumors aren't fact though and Cullen puts down the requisition order he's been reading to fix his gaze on Alistair. "How long do you think you have left?"

"Ten years if I'm lucky," Alistair drops the paper into a pile by his right foot. It's the burn pile that he tend to himself very carefully each time he has to leave the room. Carefully feeding the sheets into whatever fire he has access to and staying with it until there's nothing left but ashes. "I was born under a series of unlucky stars though, so it's probably closer to five or something like that."

Alistair grins easily as he predicts his own death. Not in jest but as a simple matter of fact. Cullen can't think about how that must be. His own life is something that has only recently become a thing he can live in beyond the moment. The future is tenuous to Cullen. Unformed with only vague ideas of what can be further down the road. Having his death be such a solid and looming thing that's closer rather than further away is not something he can imagine. Not with the same ease that Alistair seems to view it as.

"It's a miracle I've lived this long though so each year is just a gift," Alistair laughs and it surprises Cullen all over again that there's no bitterness in the sound at all. "Usually when a Warden goes up against an Archdemon they don't live to tell the stories about it. It's kind of a rule you know?"

His voice hitches only on the last sentence, and Cullen doesn't press. Alistair doesn't talk about the Hero of Ferelden. Not anywhere people can hear anyway. Leliana's perch with her birds is not a place where things are overheard and thus doesn't count. 

"The Inquisition likes to break rules," Cullen says eventually when it becomes clear Alistair isn't going to say anything else. 

"No kidding. Mages and Templars and Wardens all living together in one area?" Alistair shakes his head in mock shame. "You're all mad to have expected that to work out."

"What are we to have had it actually work?"

"Blessed," Alistair responds immediately, "by the hand of Andraste herself, or just addled in the head by it."

~

The lows hit Cullen hard and fast. Infrequently, thankfully, but Cullen can't summon the strength of will to remember that as he sits on the cool floor next to his bed. Curled over his own knees and shivering from a cold that's real and a pain that feels far too real to not be. Phantom nails rake down his back. Claws catching on the knobs of his spine, teeth chewing through his flesh, and blood fills his nose.

It's not real. It was but it's not now, but Cullen can't tell the difference because the worst of it has hit him straight out of sleep. When his mind was relaxed, his guard down, and he could stop it from dragging up the worst of everything for him to live again.

It helps and it doesn't when the most unexpected face finds him. Hands he knows and doesn't hold him still and he must be saying something. Must be raving again and out of his mind because he feels like he is.

"-I could use a good cheese now that I think about it. Something sharp and aged. And not the kind of aged that turns it into a brick you can carry around for a month without going bad-"

Voices reach Cullen's ears but he blocks them out and reaches for the one that's strongest, the one he knows has to be real, because there's no way the demons would bring him into this. No way they'd bring someone he hasn't thought of in years into the attempt to break him. The stone isn't as cold as it should be under his knees and he stares at it. Watching it turn from wood planks to bloodied stone with no idea which it should be.

"I need it," he mutters and he doesn't know what he needs until he _feels_ it. Until he feels the great well of emptiness inside him and thinks about the soft blue glow of lyrium. The thought of the liquid coolness knocks the pain and voices away. Rips the hallucination apart until he's on the floor of his room with heavy hands pinning him down as he claws at the floor. "I need it!"

Teeth flash down at him in a grimace and there's pain. Real and dull as he's held tight. "Cheese? Yeah, everyone use some fine cheese."

It's not this bad usually. He knows it, knows it somewhere, somewhen, but it's this bad now and Cullen screams as he fights. Fights the hands, fights the _need_. He just fights.

~

"It always used to scare me," Alistair admits quietly later, and Cullen doesn't have the energy to try to figure out exactly what 'later' translates to outside. He's still shaking and cold despite being in his own bed with more blankets than he knows he owns over him. Alistair talks to him from behind, an absent presence except for the hand that's still on Cullen's side. Less for pinning him in place now than it is for giving him a solid anchor to focus on as he regains his senses. "It was too easy, and it, well..."

Alistair doesn't mention the taste of lyrium. The cool taste that is as much a scent and feeling as anything else as it flowed from the mouth to uncurl through the body. Filling it with a warmth and mix of joyful pleasure that no other drug in the world could ever hope to mimic. Cullen knows. He's found far too many fallen Templars seeking their absolution in the worst kind of substances. He'd pitied their delirium before and now that pity tastes like ashes on his tongue.

"It's not always this bad," Cullen says in a cracked and wrecked voice, because it's true and that fact has become a mantra for him. A meaningless line to pull him through that he feels most keenly when he is well.

"Yeah, well," Alistair shifts and Cullen feels that he's closer than thought. Almost pressed up against his back which would make sense if he'd tried to escape. Normally the trap over the ladder is enough to confound him in his more delirious states and keep him sequestered. Alistair would not know that however. His fingers tap erratically against him for a moment. "I'm just. Can I be glad _and_ sorry at the same time without seeming like a complete arse?"

"Why not? This is the Inquisition," Cullen closes his eyes and feels weariness leech into his limbs. Holding him tight and threatening to drag him down to a sleep he knows will not be as welcoming as his body and mind year it to be. "Would you-"

"It's past midnight by now. The soldiers will start gossiping something awful if they saw me leaving your rooms now looking all rumpled," Cullen can hear the grin and amusement before the hand on his side slides forward and becomes an arm. Knees touch the back of his and a chest presses into his back. Warm lips press softly against the bare skin of the back of his neck once, then twice before a face nestles against him. Alistair barely holds back a creaking yawn that Cullen feels more than hears. "Might as well give it _some_ kernel of truth."

It's a thought to worry about later. When Cullen is feeling more himself and the embrace of another living person doesn't seem as vital as it does now. Though he most likely won't worry too much even then.


	7. Cheek Kiss [Cullen/Anders]

There's a fine layer of snow on the ground and Cullen half-hopes he's right when the old farm house comes into view. The windows are dark and the grounds still in a way that saddens his heart even as he knows it's for the best. His family has made their yearly trip to see his father's brother in Redcliffe. Made each year when frost makes tending the land a moot point until the weather warms again in Spring. They'll have been gone a few days already going by the weather Cullen marched through, and will be gone for several more still. 

Cullen and his charge will be long gone before they even set out to come back.

"I don't think anyone is home," the mage, Anders, says through clenched teeth. He's bent nearly double behind Cullen and shivering hard. His hands balled up and stuffed into his sleeves to try to fruitlessly warm them up. His lips are turning a worrying color and he's not shivering as much as he should. Nothing he has on is made for the weather and it's a minor miracle the search party sent after the escaped mage found him alive at all.

It'd taken three days to track Anders down, and what they'd found was more icicle than human. They'd had to warm him up for two days before they dared to move for his own safety. Ser Mickhael chiding Roder and Shil for their impatience in wanting to set back for the Tower immediately. Anders' health be damned. 

"We are not jailors or punishers," the older man had repeated with a stern look that worked more to impress Cullen than the other two men. "Our charge is to protect the mages from everything, even themselves."

A clear goal that Cullen understood well, but neither Shil nor Roder did. An oversight that led to Anders running off again as soon as he was able and putting enough distance between them that Michkael had been forced to divide them up to find the mage again. Something that had not pleased anyone, and Cullen is thankful that he was the one to find the mage again a day later. Stumbling around and nearly senseless from the cold he was still ill prepared for.

"No," Cullen answers and continues forward, Anders trailing miserably behind him. Silent in a way that even brief exposure to the mage at Kinloch can lead anyone to know exactly how bad off the man is. There's no padlock or keyhole on the door, and it creaks open under his hands as he lifts the latch up before twisting it. A trick that works as well as any lock. As any lock in this out of the way bit of land could need anyway. Anyone truly intent on stealing would only break through the windows anyway, as his father always used to say, and then they'd have to fix that on top of dealing with the theft. He pushes the man into the dark building before following.

The door seals off what little light there was but Cullen makes his way in through the room by memory. It's been a long time since he was last home, but everything is still laid out Exactly the same as it always has been. He finds the flint where he expects it to be and the hearth is laid out with kindling already. Coaxing a small flame to life is easy and Cullen concentrates on building it up with the wood that was laid out before they left. On hand and ready to make returning home that much easier.

The room brightens as the logs begin to catch and Cullen can feel the warmth of the fire seeping into him. He's dressed well for the weather and isn't as bad as Anders but the cold has nipped at his fingers too long and the heat is welcome. Once he's sure the fire will stay steady he back away and stands. "Sit by the fire and warm yourself."

Anders has been hovering over him and moves quickly to take his spot. Hands pale with cold shoved almost into the fire as he leans close to it. The single blanket Cullen had with him falling from his shoulders to pool on the ground as the man frowns heavily. His shivering is slowly increasing which is a good sign, though it makes his words stutter. "I don't think they'll like finding a couple of complete strangers have broken in and made themselves at home when they return. Even you being a Templar won't stop some farmer with an axe and a grudge."

"They won't mind," Cullen says with no small bemusement as he checks the prep table to find most of the makings of a stew laid out and ready. Everything that can keep for a while pre-cut so that the first warm meal after the road won't take as long. He smiles as he sweeps the herbs and tubers into the pot of covered water. He places it on its hook inside the hearth and pointedly doesn't say a single thing about who own the house. Watching the indignation boil up on Anders' face is a rather fun sport. "I doubt they will return for a good few days either."

"Of course," Anders says, and it'd be a cold tone of voice if he weren't so cold and miserable. The mage doesn't like the thought of Cullen helping himself to some strangers belongings, but is in far too bad of a shape to protest it much. Cullen pulls the blanket back up over the mage's stiff shoulders and gets a lack luster glare for his trouble. "Because a fire laid out and food on the table means the rightful owners will stay away for a few weeks."

"Exactly," Cullen replies with a grave nod of his head that hides the slight curve his lips want to take. "Watch the stew so it doesn't boil over. I will return shortly."

Cullen strides away from a stuttered protest. There will be dried meat in the cellar out back. That storage area will be locked though, and Cullen reaches behind a cracked pitcher on a desk near the door for the key hidden there before venturing out into the cold again. The wind is biting after being inside, so Cullen wastes no time hurrying around the house. He can look around in the morning if he still feels inclined to see what, if anything, has changed.

The lock is stubborn and it takes a few good yanks to get the key to catch. He nearly trips on a bag going down the stairs into the dark though, and Cullen curses silently as he reaches into one of the pockets sewn into his cloak. The philter of lyrium is filled enough that the blue glow keeps him from finding another sack the same way. He goes towards the back of the solid shelves. Passing the fruit preserves and still drying bundles of herbs his mother takes great pride in. The back shelves seem to bow under the weight of what is held there, and Cullen's pleased to know his family will be well kept this Winter. He chooses a small wrapped bit of what he knows is either dried stag or nug. The softest meat that will only keep for a few months, and must be eaten first.

His eyes linger wistfully on the preserves, but the jars are few and Cullen already knows from Mia that this past season wasn't as good for the crops as it was for the animals. He leaves without them and makes sure the cellar is secured before turning back to the house, and nearly falling right over something far larger than a bag of turnips.

"Maker-" Cullen bites off the curse with a huffed laugh as the shadow moves in a familiar way and he's nearly dropped on his arse by an affectionate dog. "Hey there, Pert. What are you still doing here?"

Cullen drops to his knee and gets an exceedingly cold nose shoved into his neck for the trouble as he scratches the old dog behind his stubby ears. Pert wriggles in his arms and keeps pressing harder against him as he pants happily. The answer to his question becomes obvious when Cullen notices the dog favoring one leg. 

"You're getting too old for long trips, aren't you?" Cullen rakes his fingers down the dog's back before fighting his way back up to his feet. It's no surprise. Pert had been getting slow the last time Cullen had seen him and that was years ago. Mother must have left him with someone nearby to watch while they were away. He's not cold enough to have been bunking out in the barn. "Come on, boy, lets get inside where we belong."

Pert barks, happy and sharp as he makes his way ahead of Cullen. Slow in a way that's painful to watch for him. He's a dog past his time, and Cullen knows it won't be long before Mia writes about his passing. It settles heavy and hard in his stomach as Pert waits at the door for him to open it. Head cocked back and stubby tail wagging.

For as slow and old as Pert is, he's fast when he needs to be. Cullen grins as Anders makes a startled and indignant noise when the dog barrels into the home and hone in on him immediately. Cold nose pressing inquisitively against every part of the man it can touch as he sniffs the mage, and Cullen thinks it was a good thing he made Anders wear his blanket earlier. Pert is not aggressive without reason, but Cullen's scent on Anders turns an ordeal Cullen knows can be frightening into something far more amusing. 

For Cullen that is. Anders seems outraged at the enthusiastic tongue bath he's getting and isn't shy about being vocal about it. "Get this beast off me! Maker, your breath stinks!"

There's letters on the desk when he returns the key. Spilling out of one of the sections and written in a hand he knows too well. Cullen hadn't thought he'd been gone long enough for Anders to get into any sort of mischief. His own fault really, he should know better than to assume when it comes to this mage. "If you're feeling well enough to snoop you can save yourself from Pert."

"That's your fault," Anders exclaims but he's sitting up now and pushing Pert away without falter. The dog goes reluctantly and is soon sniffing at the hearth with interest. "I was going to leave some coins behind for the trouble. You could have told me this belongs to your family!"

In the morning Cullen will lay out more wood and kindling in the hearth, and will make sure he leaves out more fixings for stew on the prep table. He'll also leave a note though he's mostly sure his mother will know who had been in her home simply by the cut of the tubers. He'll also place a few coins around the place. In areas where it won't be obvious because his family won't accept it otherwise even though Cullen's told them often he doesn't _need_ his full pay. Still, it's nice to think that Anders had thought to leave his own form of reparations out.

"I wanted to see how long it would take you to figure it out," Cullen unwraps the meat, nug, and uses his own dagger to slice it into small chunks. It's smoked and salted, enough to finish off the stew when he dumps it in to warm up. The liquid is starting to steam and it won't be long before they can eat. It won't be as good as anything that's had time to simmer together, but it will be warm and filling and that's all they need. "They wouldn't mind even if we were complete strangers though so long as we used no more than what we needed."

There isn't much around Honnleath but wilderness. Anyone traveling alone in these areas is usually in some form of trouble, and, as long as they don't bring any harm, the people who live in the area are inclined to offer help to those people. It's a wary kindness, but Cullen grew up watching a wide variety of strangers sitting before this hearth and gulping down a quick stew like it was the finest food in the world. Thin men and women with haunted or despairing looks. Most grateful for the kindness they sorely needed, and only a few stupid enough to think they could abuse it. The village is remote and there are certain types of people who like to settle into remote places where they can barely be found, and Cullen's seen more than a few strangers get driven off when they outstay their welcome.

Anders is using a corner of the blanket to wipe the dog spit from his face and Cullen can only see his suspicious eyes as he backs away from the hearth and reaches for the buckles of his armor. It's done well to keep him warm, but now in front of a fire it is holding the cold in. "That's uncommonly kind of them. Last time I met people who would freely give me food they tried to put me in chains and ship me off to Tevinter as a slave."

"Honnleath is the last village you will find before entering the Wilds. People find themselves in trouble here all the time. Kindness withheld will only lead to death," Cullen frowns as he stacks the armor as well as he can against the wall. He shivers a little as the air hits him, but keeps going. This is the fourth attempt Anders has made to run from the Circle. The first where Cullen has been chosen to track him down, but he's heard stories of the other times. "Finding yourself in bad situations seems to be something you excel at though. You might want to think about that the next time you think you want to leave the Circle."

"What? Live in that isolated prison until I go senile with old age?" Anders' face is mulish and stubborn as he wraps the blanket back around him. Pert sniffs his way back around to Anders and gives off a content wuff before collapsing. Sprawling out so that he's half on the fire warmed stones of the hearth and half pinning the man down to the floor. Much to Anders' dismay as he tries to futilely push Pert's head out of his lap. "I'd miss out on seeing so many wonderful things!"

"Like the inside of a slavers ship?" Cullen asks as he checks the stew to see it only just starting to bubble a little. "Or the bottom of the lake?"

"I saw a fox," Anders says stubbornly. His hands flex on Pert before giving up and splaying out. Fingers burrowing into the dogs fur as he shivers again. Or perhaps still. His lips are still off colored even with the heat of the fire starting to penetrate the house. "They're in all the books. Fox this, fox that, but I didn't know what one looked like until then."

 _It's too dangerous,_ Cullen doesn't say because Anders is winding up for an argument that he's had already with the other Templars. With all the senior mages, and anyone who dares broach the subject with him in the Tower. No arguing will satisfy the man's hunger to go out into the world and explore it. No reasoning will make him change his mind that he wouldn't be better off out in a dangerous world that would rather see him dead than alive. Nothing Cullen says will change that and so he says nothing even as he knows it is better to keep Anders safely in the confines of Kinloch Hold. For all that he is a healer with good intentions he is still a mage, and little in life is easy for them it would only take time before disaster hit.

Cullen reaches out and Anders' hands are still ice cold. The man flinches from the touch a little and buries them even further into Pert's fur. He's been out in the weather for too long with too little. Cullen doesn't doubt that it is only his own magic that has kept him from frostbite or worse. 

"You're still freezing," Cullen says instead and doesn't think anything of sitting behind the man and wrapping his arms around him. It gets cold in Honnleath and Cullen has many memories of doing just this in front of the fire many days with his siblings. The fire is always good for chasing the cold away, but another body pressed up against a person always makes the process faster. "Lean back."

"You're not a Templar," Anders mutters as he slowly does as instructed. Hissing a little as Cullen reaches forward to cover the back of his cold hands with his own. Sandwiching them between two sources of warmth. "You're an oversized mabari that slobbers slightly less."

"Is that a compliment or an insult?" Anders does not answer for once and relaxes bit by reluctant bit. Cullen can almost feel the warmth returning to the man once he's fully limp. It leaks in slowly and he hears the man's breathing stutter as it brings feeling back into his cold extremities. Anders' knuckles go white again, but from something other than cold this time. "Does it hurt?"

Anders open his mouth to respond but his breath comes out as a louder his and he flinches. A fully body thing that turns him into a rigid statue again. Feeling must be rushing back to him in a flood. Good for his health but not pleasant to feel at all even with the magic he's no doubt used. Pert whines as a few pained noises escape Anders and wriggles closer until his large body is pressed tight to the both of them. And maybe Cullen is partially mabari because he finds himself doing the same thing on his side. Curling over and around the pained mage. Caught between patting him and trying to press as much warmth as possible into the parts of him Cullen can reach.

It's not until the pain recedes and the noises Anders makes almost sound like words again that Cullen realizes what he's doing. That his left hand is cupping one side of Anders' face and he's pressing his face against the other side. Lips sliding along his cheek as he repeats soothing words and phrases that he remembers his mother saying the few times he was sick as a child. Or when one of them would inevitably fall through the shallow end of the iced over and and come running home to unthaw.

 _Sympathy is to be expected_ , Cullen recalls the words drilled into him as he turns his face away with an embarrassed flush, _but distance must be maintained._

Cullen holds on until the syllables become understandable curses, and he has to let go to stop the stew from boiling over. He keeps his distance when he settles back down to eat, and doesn't smile when Pert tries to steal the bowl right from Anders' hands. He ignores the confused looks from the mage and answers with curt words when asked a question. Distance. He forgot it in the familiar setting of his home, and with nowhere to run to regain it physically he focuses instead on getting it mentally. 

He's a Templar with a duty to complete, but he can't escape the phantom scratch of light stubble against his lips no matter how hard he blocks out the increased prattle from the mage he's bound to drag back.


	8. Forehead Kiss [The Iron Bull/Cullen]

The force of the impact steals the breath from him and paralyzes his lungs. For several minutes he lays there, very still, and tries not to panic as he works to force them to take in air again. Spots of light flash before his eyes and Cullen knows enough not to think it's just the lack of air as he finally manages to drag in one gulping gasp. Rough and ragged, it's utterly painful but necessary. Cullen does it again and again until he's able to sit up and take the scorn he knows is coming.

The Iron Bull is standing above him grinning as he waits patiently for Cullen to climb back to his feet. Shield still ready for another bashing and Cullen finds it in himself to feel amazed that the thick wood of it isn't cracked or splintered. He has a new appreciation for the man's second as well. Krem faces this brute force every day willingly. Any man who can do that _and_ keep his feet is someone to be respected in Cullen's books.

"Need a breather?" Bull asks with a smirk though Cullen knows the man won't begrudge him one if says yes. Needle him about it endlessly? Yes, but he won't push too far about it. The qunari is used to be an overpowered giant among a land of smaller people. "Or you want to give it another shot?"

Cullen breathes and rolls his left shoulder. Feeling the joint pop and crack as he tests the limits of his body. His arm is still flashing from tingles of numbness to pain. He'll have a magnificent bruise on his elbow come tomorrow and his bones will be protesting this abuse for a while. His wrist is fine though and his shoulder is well enough that he picks the heavy shield up again and sets his feet with a grin of his own. "Maybe you should stop holding back. I think I can take another few hits."

Bull's laugh rings out in the courtyard and Cullen grunts as the man charges. He's holding back still as this one doesn't do more than jolt Cullen's shoulder and push him back a few feet. "That the best-"

Cullen grunts as he's hit again from up close and far harder than he has been yet. The shock knocks the breath from him again and the jarring impact with the ground makes him see sparks. Cullen coughs hard and manages to get his lungs working quicker this time, but only at the cost of some truly pitiful noises he will deny to his dying day. A shadow blocks the sun from his eyes and Cullen looks up.

"Bad idea to think I need to run to put you on your ass, Cullen," Bull is crouched over his head and Cullen knows he should have called it quits a while back, but stubbornness had made him hold out. "You're better at being an unstoppable force than an immovable object anyway."

The comment is a compliment and Cullen takes it as gracefully as he can manage. Less so when Bull continues to crouch over him with the grin that hasn't wavered a single bit since this started. He's still and expectant and Cullen groans in defeat. "Fine, yes, you can use the trebuchet. Teach me to let you goad me into a foolish bet."

Bull leans down and plants a wet, strangely soft kiss right in center of his forehead. His grin is wider and more than a little frightening when he stands up. Hauling Cullen up as well with very little effort. He sways a bit but Bull puts a solid arm around him companionably. "Look at it this way, it'll be good for morale. I'll even let you launch one or two yourself and you'll see why I have the best ideas."

"I thought you only had one," Cullen protests weakly as he's dragged along. Bull isn't actually letting go even though the world is steady now under his feet. Curiosity eats at him though, and Cullen recognizes it as the same gleeful curiosity that had gotten his backside tanned more than once as a child.

"Nah, Krem's been up all night sewing the little stuffed nugs," Bull sweeps his way into the tavern and a little cheer goes up from the corner that's occupied by the Chargers more often than not. There are, Cullen notes, _two_ barrels of winged nugs with them. Krem sits next to them with a neutral look that doesn't match the unholy glee in his eyes. Bull chuckles and squeezes almost painfully. "Alright, Chargers! Get those up to the battlements!"

Cullen sighs and wonders, not for the first time, what kind of stars he was born under.


	9. Kiss in the Rain [Fenris/Cullen]

It rains for a week after and Kirkwall seems to just shut down under it. It's not even the usual rain the city gets. No lashing wind and torrential deluge to drown in. It's a softer rain. Steady and just enough to throw the city into a haze. Like a dreamer reluctant to open their eyes and exchange the Fade for reality.

The Gallows is more silent than any other place save, perhaps, the crater where the Chantry once stood. Cullen walks the halls and looks through emptied rooms. Occasionally picking up some small, personal item that's been abandoned and looking at it for an hour or more. The Gallows is empty mostly. The mages gone before Meredith had been declared dead. Slipped out of the city while Cullen watched and did nothing to stop them. Templars followed. One by one the older knights had gone out with hate or despair in their eyes. The few who stay still with him are younger. Mostly new recruits who haven't reached the level needed for their Vigil. They look to him with uncertain eyes and shaky resolve that Cullen cannot bear to look at.

He has no answers for them, no ready explanation to comfort them. As the highest ranking officer, duty dictates....

Duty dictates much, and the rules and vows and everything that he's known and held dear to lay heavy on his mind. Burnt and fouled to the point where Cullen's not sure everything he is, all that he's worked for, isn't a lie. He'd grown to doubt Meredith so strongly. Strongly enough to turn against her, but it was his faith to the Order than made him stay so close to her side for so long. To make excuses and turn his eyes when that was the last thing he should have ever done.

There are bodies stacked in the cooler rooms of the Gallows. Waiting for the rain to stop long enough to be properly dealt with. Though the number of bodies would make it easy for any pyre started to burn even through this rain. Mages, Templars, Guards, and civilians alike wait and they all share the same frozen look of fear on their faces.

Cullen wanders the rooms of the dead to avoid the men and women looking to him for guidance. He focuses on the minutiae of their lives. A plain little pendant on a cord, found in the fold of one of the mage's beds. A scrap of paper sticking out from the pages of a book in a senior knight's room, a list of items to buy from the market. Little things that don't matter any longer but he allows to absorb all of his attention regardless.

Anything to keep it from straying out to the courtyard where the vicious red glow of Meredith can clearly be seen even through the rain. It doesn't work as often as he wishes it would.

Three days pass before Cullen's helpless gaze catches on something new in the courtyard. A blue glow that pulls him out into the rain with an unease that only abates when he sees the sharp outlines of dark, spiked armor.

The elf is a companion of the Champion. One that Cullen has actually spoken to on a few occasions. Usually brief encounters where Fenris had asked the sort of pointed questions Cullen is used to hearing from people thinking about joining the Order, and sharing his views that Cullen had once thought safely predictable given his background. It says something about the Gallows that Fenris had followed Hawke without hesitation when the man chose to oppose Meredith. Cullen relaxes his hold on his sword and slows his stride. He stops some several feet away because the elf is closer to Meredith that is safe.

"I would not recommend getting any closer," Cullen says and his voice nearly gives out on the last word. It's the first ones he's spoken in a little over two days. He coughs harshly and licks his lips. Grateful for the cool rain that wets them enough to moisten his tongue. "I doubt _that_ will help you."

The marks on the man's skin glow a blue so light it's white at the edges. Familiar to any Templar or mage as lyrium. Even when not active though now it sings to him sweetly in a way that makes Cullen abruptly aware of the last time he'd measured out a dose of lyrium. 

Fenris steps back slowly. His eyes not leaving the grotesque statue that used to be a living being until he's nearly level with Cullen. It's a degree of superstitious caution he can't fault him for. Cullen himself feels the need to check to make sure Meredith hasn't moved every few hours after all. The intense glow of the markings fade, and Cullen almost asks but he's sure there are better things to speak of right now. None of Hawke's people would be here willingly otherwise.

"Varric has arranged for dwarven miners to come for it in the morning," Fenris says when he looks away and fixes his steady gaze on Cullen instead. "Lyrium miners. He says they have things designed to contain the effects of it."

"I'll be glad for it," the sooner Meredith --for Cullen cannot think of the red lyrium as anything less than her body-- is gone the better. There's a fragile peace about the city right now. One that he knows is going to crash soon, and most likely it will be brought on by someone coming for answers. He does not want to think about it but he knows this will be the first thing they look for. The first thing they will want to touch and study and damn the effects. "They'll have what help we can offer should they need it."

"They won't ask," Fenris dismisses immediately, and Cullen waits. 

Waits patiently for more words or for the man to leave. The latter seemingly the more likely option. Fenris has always been a presence seen but rarely heard when Cullen has dealt with Hawke before. A stoic man who held his tongue more often than not and let his actions speak for him. Violent actions, but still expressive enough to get his point across.

Fenris does neither things though. He does not leave and he says nothing more. He simply stands there and frowns. A crease cutting into his forehead and giving the rain a new structure to run down. He's looking at Cullen like the others do, but there's no uncertainty or shakiness in his gaze thought. Just blunt puzzlement that Cullen can't answer any more than he can answer anything else.

"You're giving up," Fenris eventually states and he doesn't bother to hide the scorn in his voice as he crosses his arms over his chest. It makes the spikes on his shoulders stick out more, makes them look more dangerous.

"I'm not doing anything," Cullen responds flatly because it's true and he can't work up any anger or indignation at the accusation. "I don't know if it's escaped your notice but I helped kill my commanding officer."

"She was dangerous," Fenris dismisses immediately and that's true too. So true and simple that it makes Cullen ache for times when simple truths like that mattered. Times Cullen isn't so sure hadn't only existed in his naive mind.

"I doubt the Order or the Chantry will see it that way," Cullen shifts and the slight move opens up a gap in his armor along his back. The rain starts to immediately slip in. "As you are well aware of, or are you telling me your friends haven't been making plans to be as far from here as possible before anyone can come running?"

Kirkwall is paralyzed by the events, but Cullen is still very much aware of the movements of the city. Meredith had demanded to be kept informed of every move of the Champion of Kirkwall and his associates after all. He knows they'll be gone with the first tide in the morning.

"We are running," Fenris admits with a small dismissive shrug, like that fact is not a big deal. "We are not giving up though."

"Not giving up _what_ though?" The question bursts out of Cullen with more force than he's been capable of bringing out for a good deal longer than these past few days. "What is it that you all plan on doing?"

What are you fighting for? What do you hope to accomplish? The questions pile up on his tongue but he won't ask them all, because letting them all out will break something in him. Something that Cullen didn't realize wasn't broken before along with everything else.

"Living," Fenris answers after a pause that's thoughtful and his eyes shift to the left slightly before locking back on Cullen. "I've been told that it's a goal worthy of fighting for. Even if you must run for a while. As for what we plan to do? Whatever we think is necessary to accomplish that."

A singularly selfish goal and Cullen laughs because it sounds like the grandest plan he's ever heard of. He laughs because he's watched Hawke and his group for years now, and he knows that _somehow_ the more selfish they get the more people they will end up saving. They are a group some of the most reprehensible people Cullen's ever seen, and they all manage to do more good than he's seen out of the Order in years.

"You do that," Cullen says when the laughter dies and the exhaustion he's felt for the past few days rushes back in. Stealing what little light the bitter joke had brought to him. 

"You should consider it as well," Fenris shifts now. Pivoting on the balls of his feet so he's in front of Cullen and not beside him.

"I'm not very good at running," hiding, yes, but Cullen's always had problems with retreating. 

"Living," Fenris corrects. His arms drop and he brings his right hand, curled in a loose fist, up to his face. He presses the side of the fist to his lips before turning it and placing it on Cullen's armor. Directly over his heart in a gesture that's nonsense to Cullen but freezes him fast anyway. "I think you once knew how."

Fenris turns without another word and the rain swallows up his form. Cullen stares after the man for a while yet and tries to remember if that was ever true.


	10. Forceful Kiss [Krem/Cullen]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dammit, Krem! I said drabble!

Cullen's mouth is filled with blood and ash, and that's all he cares to identify as he pushes himself up from the ground with a grunt. Blood runs into his eyes from somewhere though he's sure it's not his own. He wastes a precious moment to swipe at it and get his bearings as he kneels. The overwhelming press of demons and possessed Wardens has thinned. Whatever the force was that threw him to the ground has ripped most of the shades apart and made the rage demons founder.

There's the lingering scent of the storm in the air and Cullen feels the way the small hairs on the back of his neck still stand on end. Lightning then. The air stirs above his head and he ducks back down on instinct. He still has hold of his sword but the sound of crunching bones stays his hand long enough to look before striking.

The huge sledgehammer cuts through the air over his head again and Cullen recognizes the flash of power just over Krem's shoulder as the Charger's "archer" throwing things that cannot be called arrows in any sense of the word despite her protests.

"Still got your head?" Krem's voice echoes in the confines of his helmet. A useful thing to have and Cullen doesn't have the time to chastise himself for losing his so damnably early in the assault.

"I'm fine," Cullen pushes himself up as the Chargers make short work of shoring up the hole that had nearly collapsed their line as the demons had massed suddenly enough that Cullen hadn't been able to shift their forces. Only the warnings of some retreating, sane Wardens had made sure his push to contain chaos didn't fail so soon. "I thought your group was on the southern wall."

"You're welcome," Krem's weapon cracks the stones as he lets it slam down to the ground. The long haft of the weapon propped against his shoulder as he yanks on the buckles of his gauntlets. Tightening and resettling it before slinging his weapon over his shoulder with an ease that's surprising for his frame. Right up until he is seen taking the brunt of The Iron Bull's charge with only a shield and slight shift. "Funny thing about the southern wall though, Commander, is it's being held by a bunch of Gray Wardens now. Not much use for us there."

"Not all of the Wardens seem to approve of the plan to summon a horde of demons," Cullen assesses the placement of the mercenaries. They flow well with his soldiers and fit the gaps left. As expected. The Chargers have been with the Inquisition since Haven, and had more practice working together than any other of their newer gained forces. "Surprisingly, some of them seem to recognize it for the bad idea it is."

Krem's laugh is sharp as the ring of metal as he smacks his weapon down into his free hand. Holding it ready as demons begin to approach again. "Go on then Commander. Show the gloomy bastards not as smart how stupid they are. We've got this area."

~

The Gray Wardens follow them back to Skyhold. Inquisition forces stay in Adamant to finish securing it. To make sure nothing lingers and to find anything that might be too dangerously to leave behind. None of the Wardens asked to stay behind after sending their dead off, and Cullen had spoken against asking it of them. Their loyalty is untested and Cullen knows well the eyes of haunted men.

Leaving the desert is easier than entering it. Even with the siege engines on hand to return. Cullen knows it's the dual nature of victory and loss that quickens his troop’s steps, but he is grateful for it all the same. The sight of demons doesn't paralyze him the way it used to. His duty to rid the world of them had not allowed him to keep that reaction for very long, but he knows himself well enough to know --now that the worst of the danger is over-- his dreams at first camp will not be the pleasant kind. The more distance he puts between him and Adamant won't stop that, but it eases his mind anyway.

Cullen paces pack and forth. Checking in with his soldiers and making sure his face is seen. He's heading up to the front where the Inquisitor is leading the way when he spots Krem, and remembers he has something to say to the man.

"Krem," Cullen says and the man looks over his shoulder before slowing his steps to fall in with Cullen. "I forgot to thank you, for earlier. I'm sure I would have lost more of my head than is healthy back there if not for you."

"Ah, you would have been fine," they both slide a little as the road angles down, and Krem throws him grin that's just charming enough for Cullen to recognize. Dorian uses a brighter version when he's trying to get away with something. "Not too upset we left the southern wall then?"

"No," Cullen responds puzzled for a moment at the random question. It may not have broken their assault, but not having the Chargers there when the line broke would have certainly led to higher losses.

"Really," Krem states and he's equal parts amused and surprised. "We've worked with armies before you know. Had my arse chewed out good a time or two for not sticking to the grand plan."

"I've yet to see a plan survive first blow completely intact. The situation changed and you adapted. That's often how battles are won," Cullen knows the Chargers have worked in many countries, but Orlais has been their main base of operations. He can well imagine the kind of micromanaging that some of those nobles would get up to with a mercenary group. "You are employed by the Inquisition, but you are not my soldiers. I may give some direction, but as long as you do not leave our back unprotected I expect you to know where you are needed most."

It had been one of the conditions insisted on by Bull. The man had been insistent on his Chargers keeping some autonomy. Point them at a target and allow them to figure out how best to get to it. Cullen trusts them to hold to that by now, and being angered over them leaving their place had not occurred to him.

"Good to know, Commander," Krem says though Cullen knows very well that those conditions must have been insisted on by him as well. He's Bull's right hand and knows everything the qunari does. But then, Cullen is aware that knowing something should be true isn't as strong as actually knowing it to be true. "You should stop by once we set up camp. We've got a few casks to break open, share a drink with us. Won't last long with all these thirsty hanger-ons though."

One of the Chargers laughs as Krem waves at the suddenly interested faces of some of Cullen's soldiers. The ones close enough to hear about the casks. Very little can get a soldier's attention like the mention of a drink and Cullen smiles ruefully as he answers honestly, "I think I shall."

~

There aren't too many beggars though. The sight of Cullen watching is enough to deter all but the most shameless of the "bottom feeders" as Rocky likes to call them. It makes him wonder as he nurses, his second mug, if that was the real reason he was invited among them.

"Not too warm is it?" Krem asks. Sprawled out on the ground with his head propped up by his helmet at an angle that's uncomfortable to look at. He's drinking straight from the neck of a wine bottle, his own mug lent to Cullen without hesitation earlier.

Surprisingly, the ale isn't as warm as it should be given the heat of the desert they've been traveling through for over a week. It's a far better quality ale than what's available at Skyhold too, and is easy to drink. Too easy. He'd only planned for one, and now is firmly reminding himself he doesn't need a third. The forces might be bedding down but there's enough to keep Cullen going for the rest of the night if he's not too addled from drink. "Not at all."

"Well if it's not that, then why are you playing with your cups more than drinking?" Krem raises the bottle and there's enough light from the fire that Cullen can see the man's already down to the dregs. "It's not that nug piss we get at Skyhold. So I know it's not the taste."

"No, not the taste. The drink is too fine actually," Cullen tilts the sturdy travel mug far enough down that Krem can see how very little is left in it. "I'd rather not get completely sotted on the road though."

"Best place for it. Especially after a day like today," Krem disagrees. He tilts the bottle straight up and drains it with only a slight grimace at whatever sediment has settled in the bottle. "I think you could use a night of being drunk myself. Show your men you're human enough to make a fool of yourself once in a while. It's do wonders for morale that's for sure. But whatever works for you."

Cullen's a sleepy drunk. More likely to pass out than make an ass of himself, and there was a time when he thought that perfectly fine. A time when not being able to wake himself from nightmares because of the alcohol in his body wasn't a terrifying thought. Cullen smiles politely enough and hands the mug to Krem to finish. He's drunk more than enough already, because he almost shard that thought with the mercenary. "Unfortunately, there's too much left for me to attend to sober. Thank you though, for the drinks."

"Might be some left if you swing by before the Chief gets back," Krem offers and doesn't protest taking the mug back. He eyes the level in it with squinted eyes before shrugging and draining it. It's an open invitation that Cullen won't take up and the man probably knows it but he thankfully doesn't press as Cullen walks away.

~

Cullen manages push through another day before his hands start shaking a little too much. The first warning sign that he's pushed too far and things will go very badly for him if he keeps at it. He sleeps then, and though it's not pleasant at all he gains enough rest from the broken hours before the sun rises again to be functional.

The flush of victory is fading and the army is starting to remember more keenly all those lost on Adamant's walls. Cullen roams the lone of marching men more feely and sees more than a few looks being thrown backwards where the blue of the Gray Warden armor sticks out against the sand of the landscape. It's not surprising or unexpected.

"The men are starting to grow resentful," Cullen reports when he makes his way up to the head of the column next. Cassandra blows out a sharp sigh and her jaw firms up as the Inquisitor closes his eyes for a moment in weariness. "The Wardens camp far enough away that it is not a problem, but it will spill over at Skyhold."

"So it will," Maxwell says when he opens his eyes again. His smile is rueful and tugs at the scars on his face that seem so out of place for a noble. "Well, it's not like anything has been easy yet. We have enough experience with friction in the ranks already."

"Just let them smash the crap out of each other," Bull offers from his post of hovering over the Inquisitor's right shoulder. A spot he hasn't left since Maxwell came stumbling, unexpectedly, back out of the rift after reports had placed him as victim to the dragon. Cullen doesn't know what is between the two men --and quite frankly he's happy with that-- but he's sure it's a bit more than the simple fling that the others seem to view it as. Bull's voice is light and joking, and it matches the smile on his face but none of that reaches his eyes. "Nothing a good brawl can't sort out for them."

"I'd prefer to have a functioning army, not a force of recovering injured," Cullen notes because he's thought of just allowing things to take their natural course. Were it any other group but Wardens he would not have thought twice about it. However, it is Gray Wardens they're dealing with, and Cullen is all too aware of exactly how much damage they can cause should it come to that. Had the majority of the Wardens not come to their senses so soon the Inquisition would have paid far more dearly to breach Adamant.

"We will deal with it at Skyhold," Cassandra decrees with a confidence Cullen's glad one of them feels. "It can be no more difficult that reconciling our mages with our templars has been. There is time yet before we must have a plan."

And opportunities to implement them are --unfortunately-- plentiful. Cullen sees the wisdom in Cassandra's words though and nods. By the time they return to the keep there will no doubt be some matter that needs their attention. Something where the skills of the Wardens can shine through and cut through some of the distrust. He nods and slows his pace to continue watching the men and women as they march.

~

The distance between Cullen's forces and the Wardens is strictly observed, and Cullen feels grateful for the insight from them even as he knows he's going to have to work hard to fix that separation. The Inquisitor wants the Wardens to be part of the Inquisition, and they are now technically _his_ people. The distance is tended to carefully by the Wardens, and strictly enforced for the rest of the army.

Bull eventually wanders back from Maxwell's side as Cullen's observing the dark looks growing darker at the rear of the line. The Chargers fall in around him taking up the very rear. Forming a wall of friendly insults and bickering that turns pointed when any soldier tries to slow. Tries to look beyond them. It's subtle and Cullen appreciates it greatly when the flagging pace of the march picks up a bit more.

Krem finds his Cullen on one of his passes and nods at him. "Thank you."

"No idea what you're on about," Krem says with a smirk that drags one side of his mouth up higher than the other. "And I'd rather be thanked with a round if you're feeling so inclined to keep thanking me."

"Noted," Cullen says and he means it. If they get back to Skyhold without a single incident he'll buy a round for all of the Charges. Just one though.

~

"Not so bad now is it?" Krem asks over a frothy mug that actually smells close to what it tastes like. Nug piss, as the man was so fond of calling it. Cullen drinks anyway, and he's feeling warmer than he should in the Herald's Rest. "I've only seen you disciplining half a dozen groups so far."

"It's only been two days," Cullen wishes Krem hadn't brought that up. He's only on his second round and truly feels like he needs a few more before thinking about the ridiculousness he can already see coming. "Give them time. They'll find things to fight over soon enough."

The Wardens are settled in now, and remarkably insular given the size of the keep. It's taken the soldiers a bit of creative thinking to get into altercations with the Wardens. It will not last though. Frustration is building among them, and Cullen's still sorting out the ranks for them. Those who led them were the first to die at Adamant, and what he's left with are only a handful of people with more than a year as a Warden.

They're resilient and dealing well with the massive losses they've taken, but they are still only mortal in the end. Mortal men and women who will snap and lash out when pushed far enough.

"You're a barrel of cheer tonight. Need any more of that to help?" Krem waves at Cullen's mug as he stands and Cullen doesn't have time to debate before Krem makes the decision for him. "Give it here."

Laughter rises too loud for Cullen's dutiful protest to be heard. Krem sits in the corner of the tavern. On the edge of his company where he can listen in on them and still keep watch of the rest of the building. Cullen leans back in the stool he kicked over when the other mercenaries started pressing him for another round.

Maxwell sits easily among them. Laughing and listening intently to their tales. A prominent reminder of his trust in the mercenaries that had worked wonders for silencing the grumbles from the soldiers at their presence. Though Cullen's sure it does little to silence the rumors about what is between him and Bull. Not that either man appears to care much to Josephine's consternation.

The tavern is full. The returning troops making their presence known as they fill the building up to the rafters. Though the very top floor is grudgingly filled as usual. If he wanted to he could look up and would likely see Cole perched on the railing mostly ignored by the people around him, but not ignoring them in turn.

Crockery clatters on the barrel between Cullen and Krem's chair when he returns with more than just ale. He's got two steep walled bowls filled with a thick brown liquid. Unidentifiable lumps breaking the surface here and there. A hunk of bread and a square of crumbling cheese are laid out as well and Krem smirks at Cullen's look. "You've drunk enough that it won't taste as bad as it actually is."

There's paperwork that has built up in the time he was away. Plans to make and new incidents to read up on and familiarize himself with. He has recruiters to send out and new recruits to test. Patrols to assign and several personal requests to look over. Sleep should ideally also happen sometime in that mess as well. He shouldn't be here much longer. He's already spent more time than he'd planned sitting.

"I don't know," he picks up the hot bowl and cradles it in his left hand dubiously. "I've heard things about the tavern food."

Usually from men or women with pale faces curled over a privy hole or clutching a spare bucket. Muttering prayers and depreciations in equal measure.

"Guarantee you they're not even close to the truth," Krem shows no hesitation in breaking the bread up and using it to scoop out some of the stew. Though he does wash down the first bite with a hearty drink. "Come on, Commander. You've been so busy lately I don't think I've seen you stop by the hall for a meal at all lately."

"I do eat," just not in the main hall. Usually a messenger or one of Leliana's people run him down with a tray just as he's thinking about stopping by the kitchen so he's had no need. He follows Krem's example and scoops up a generous bite with some bread. It's bland and warm. Not very good but better than Cullen's had before, and not deserving of the depreciations he's heard about it. "I also sleep and shave like any other man despite what the rumors may say."

"Don't let word of that get out or your men'll die of shock," Krem settles back to sit sideways in his chair. Eyes straying back to the tavern floor for a moment before flicking over to the tables occupied by his men, and then over to Cullen again. It's a pattern he settles into so that he can see everything. "Some of your friends too I suspect."

"Indeed," Cullen no longer startles when Leliana's voice leaps out behind him unexpectedly. Jumping only amuses her though ignoring her tendency to sneak has yet to make her stop. Her hand is light as she leans over his shoulder to peer into his bowl. Her other hand places a rolled parchment next to his ale. Unmarked and sealed only with a bit of twine. Information then, but nothing important that needs immediate attention. Just something that only his eyes need to see. "Though we do appreciate what a good meal and decent night of sleep does for our commander's good looks."

Krem barks out a laugh as the woman leaves and Cullen sighs at the joke that's already grown old.

~

It comes slowly. A comment here, another there, and Cullen suddenly feels awkward and more than a bit foolish. Krem's face is softer, and his voice not as deep but Cullen hadn't really thought....

No one said differently though, and how was he supposed to know? Was he supposed to know? Krem is Bull's second in command and the qunari calls him a man when he's not calling him several insulting names. He's qunari though, and apt to confuse one human for another without care. Cullen wonders on it a bit but the Chargers do not all share that in common, and to them Krem is a man. Cullen has spent enough time around them to be sure of that.

Cullen lingers in his office under the pretext of catching up on the reports that don't ever truly stop coming in. He makes good headway with it and little else. Dorian tracks him down and drags him out eventually. Determined to regain some pride from the last rout of a game.

Cullen's attention is only half on the game much to the other man's delight as Cullen immediately loses three pieces to Dorian's bold attack strategy. He's smirking and Cullen wonders if there's any overlap between the noble class of Tevinter and the lower ranks.  
"Are there women in the Tevinter army?" Cullen asks and the unexpectedness of it makes Dorian's hand falter a little. He puts his piece down on the wrong square and scowls down at it as Cullen takes the small reprieve.

"Yes," Dorian chooses to answer the question though he watches with hawk-like intensity as Cullen makes his move to exploit the mistake. "Though you're not likely to encounter them. Women serve in less aggressive positions than they do in the southern countries."

"I see," is that it then? No one can deny that Krem is a fighter through and through. Is his --her?-- manner and habits a holdover from that? Dorian's next move minimizes his mistake and Cullen takes his time to look over the whole board.

"Do you?" Dorian asks and leans back in his chair to wait. His eyes are shrewd as he tents his fingers before him. "I don't suppose this conversation is going the way I _think_ it is, is it? You have been spending a remarkable chunk of time with the Chargers of late," he grins suddenly. Bright and deeply amused as he leans forward quickly and drops his voice. "Tell me, Cullen, were you _not_ aware of Krem's unique situation?"

Cullen plants the heel of his hand against Dorian's forehead and pushes the man back, but knows his face is burning with embarrassment even before he speaks. "No, I was not. I'm _still_ not if you wish me to be perfectly honest."

"Well I suppose I can help the poor man out," Dorian fusses with his hair for a bit. Ignoring the glare Cullen gives him as he takes his time to resettle himself in his chair. "He must truly be tired of telling the same story over and over again. For being such an, ah, _open_ people the strangest things seem to confound you."

"And will you take pity on the poor barbaric southern or continue to gloat?" Cullen asks with a patient sigh because Dorian is fueled by the frustrations of others.

"Krem was born a woman physically, but he is in fact a man despite that," Dorian says simply, and then waits expectantly.

"I don't understand," because Cullen doesn't. He truly doesn't, and he almost thinks Dorian is jesting but it's not really the kind of topic he would joke over. "It has nothing to do with the Tevinter military? He deserted because-"

"Ah!" Dorian holds one hand up in a firm gesture and shakes his head. "No, not at all! Krem wasn't drummed out so fiercely for that. Trust me. The men who went after him were far more concerned with the fact that Krem had _lied_ than anything else. Or maybe just that he got caught actually now that I think about it. I can assure you they didn't give two damns about whether the bulge in his pants was real or not."

Cullen blinks and reaches out to make his move. He doesn't understand, and maybe he can't. Dorian takes two more of his pieces and Cullen knows he should concede to save his dignity, but he doubts he has much left after that fumbling attempt to gain an answer.

"Enough of that. If you frown any harder I'm afraid you'll break your face," Dorian holds up one of the pieces he had just captured. "You are worried that you've said something to cause offense, or that you will eventually."

Cullen flinches as Dorian puts his finger right on a matter he hasn't yet gotten around to truly thinking about, but is true all the same. "I wasn't _before_."

"You've done a good job so far when you did not think about it at all," Dorian makes a pleased sound when Cullen makes his next move. "Continue as you are. I'm sure Krem is more than capable of speaking up to correct anything he may have issue with."

Another truth though Dorian understates it greatly. Krem can shout down anything with the kind of loud and commanding voice needed on the battlefield, but it's his dry quips are far more feared by those who know him. Almost as much as his uncanny accuracy for throwing things across the tavern when he doesn't feel like raising his voice.

"That is a very good point," Cullen concedes.

"Me, the voice of reason. I think I need to have a few drinks until the taste of that washes out of my mouth. I do believe this game is mine as it is," Dorian says as he places Cullen into check. Far too easily and Cullen will need to work hard to beat down the smugness the other man will throw in his face until the next game. Dorian wait for Cullen to tip his king in acceptance of the defeat before rising to his feet with a brilliant white toothed grin. "Care to join me? Watching you trip over your words would be a perfect end to my day."

Cullen weighs his king in one hand briefly before throwing it at Dorian's smirk.

~

Cullen does not understand still, but that does not matter he starts to think. There are many things he doesn't understand. The concept isn't entirely foreign to him when he thinks about it either. Though Cullen does try his best not to use his time in Kirkwall as a way to measure the world by too often. Dorian's advice, glib as it was no doubt meant to be, is perhaps the best he's heard.

He returns to occasionally drinking ale that tastes like nug piss, sitting on a stool too short for his legs, and listening to the creative insults Skinner shouts up to Sera at random. And he doesn't think about it.

It works in fits and starts that get easier with time and one very memorable threat involving Cullen's family jewels that he's not entirely sure isn't something made up after a few too many drinks or not.

~

"I won't say no," Krem says as Bull throws four of Cullen's strongest men into the ivy covered wall near the practice dummies. One by one, quick enough that there's almost a rhythm to it. "But I have to point out that you pay us well, and part of that pay is meant to go to keeping us well equipped."

The men shake it off admirably and are back in the brawl. Their faces are contorted with the kind of frustrated anger that bounces right off of Bull's booming laugh. His amusement, not hidden at all, over being able to so easily best them does nothing for the men's egos, and their rage fuels them to acts of stupidity. The same stupidity that has seen them in his office twice so far this month. It's why Cullen had thrown them at the qunari instead of making them do some other kind of punishment for their latest actions.

"It's less for you than the Inquisition," Cullen points out as Bull makes a remark too low for Cullen to hear, but that makes one of the men scream in rage. The man's lost what little sense he once had, and all of his training is forgotten in that rage. "I am seeing a pattern of problems in my forces and I am liking the solution the Inquisitor has proposed."

Varric seems skeptical that stupid can be beaten out of people, but Cullen is willing to give it a try for as long as Bull is up for it. He doubts that the qunari will ever say no though.

"It is nice seeing the Chief beat up on someone else," Krem offers as two of the men go sprawling in the dirt. One has a streak of blood going down his face, but his eyes are livid and unthinking as he throws himself at Bull's back. He clings on with all his strength as Bull continues to toss his friends around. Seemingly oblivious to the man's attempts to choke him. "It's hard keeping up with him sometimes. Has too damned much energy most days."

"You do well enough," Cullen turns away from the fight. Krem's still sweating from the sparring he'd interrupted, but he doesn't look any worse for the wear though Cullen knows Bull wasn't going any easier on him.

"Practice," Krem dismisses, "and the ability to keep a cool head."

Someone shouts something implausible about Bull's mother that gets cut off with a crack of the wooden practice shield that's audible. Krem winces, but it doesn't diminish the smirk that slowly spreads across his face. A bead of sweat shifts and rolls down his jawline, and Cullen watches it.

"Putting it that way, you can tell your Lady Ambassador that the Chargers will be more than happy to accept the new shields," Krem's voice startles Cullen enough to look up in time to meet the man's eyes when he turns back to look at him. "Payment for the lessons we'll be teaching your men. Just don't blame me if they come back a little mouthier than usual."

"I-" Cullen makes himself look back to the area where Bull is standing over the defeated soldiers. They'll need a healer to look at them, but the mindless anger is gone from them for the moment. Hopefully to stay away though only time will tell for that. He focuses on them and assessing their states to forget the way his eyes lingered. "I'll take their lip over their insubordination any day."

"You say that now," Krem pushes off the wall and claps a friendly hand on his shoulder before sauntering away.

~

It catches Cullen at odd times. The tavern is a nightly stop for him now unless dire missions dictate it, or Bull has his people out in the field. He doesn't always go to sit with Krem, but more often than not he finds himself in the stool that's now a permanent fixture in the corner. Listening to colorful stories of the jobs the Chargers have been hired for, and watching the door so Krem can keep a better eye on his men.

It's awkward and confusing all over, because he's not sure he should find something attractive in the way the soft light of the tavern softens Krem's cheeks. That a few dark drops of wine on his lower lip should be worth of study, or that Cullen can perfectly recall the crooked angle of his smirk when the Chargers are away. 

Krem is a steady and calming presence. A perfect foil for Bull, and many others when Cullen thinks of it. He's glad to think he might call him a friend. Any thought beyond that are easily pushed aside.

~

"A sister?" Krem asks and Cullen wonders how concerned he should be over the mercenary reading his personal letters in his office. He decides he'd rather that over Krem reading any of the other reports littering his desk by the time the man lets out a low whistle. Impressed, and Cullen knows which letter he picked based off that alone. "She seems pretty terrifying."

"I'm the youngest of four," Cullen reaches for the letter and Krem gives it up only after a few seconds. Seconds needed to finish reading it no doubt. He buries it back under another pile of reports for later when he's figured out a way to keep her from following up on her threat to travel to Skyhold with words that won't ensure she shows up with the whole family in tow. "She worries needlessly."

"You have an entire army that would agree with you," Krem folds his arms over his chest, and the motion pulls at the sleeves of the simple shirt he's wearing tight against the muscles of his arms. A nonsensical thing that Cullen only notices because it's not often Krem is seen without armor. "And over a dozen friends who would loudly agree with her. Most of whom are waiting in the tavern right now."

"Is that why you're here?" Cullen asks with a groan he doesn't try to conceal. The card games have become a weekly occurrence. Attended --by the command of Varric-- by whomever is still at the keep. "What excuse it the dwarf using now?"

"None, Commander, he's carefully deciding which bit of blackmail to use," Krem smirks as Cullen shifts because if there is blackmail out there that would force his hand Varric would have it. "He's about to start debating the merits of it all out loud, and I thought you'd like the chance to stop him before Sera hears anything."

"Maker," Cullen groans but doesn't delay in dragging himself after a laughing Krem. He knows better than to think Varric is bluffing.

~

"I don't have any siblings," Krem offers the next day. Nursing the same headache that Cullen is trying to ignore as Bull delights in his newest set of living practice dummies. Men caught harassing an elven merchant for extremely unacceptable reasons. 

"You're lucky," Cullen says automatically. He loves his family, but that love has always been stronger with distance.

"You really think so?" Krem asks with a wry twist of lips that almost makes Cullen forget his aching head. Maker, he needs to learn to say no when the rounds get longer. "Might not have cocked up so bad if I weren't the only kid to carry on the family."

"Maybe, maybe not," Cullen answers and closes his eyes to block out some of the light form the rising sun. "You could have just as easily ended up in a worse spot as not."

Krem laughs and the sound makes Cullen wince even though the other man stops as abruptly as he started. "True, but it might have made my mother happier to have one kid who'd do what she wanted them to."

Cullen wonders at the Tevinter obsession with marrying for status. He can follow it to a point, but there's a line where it crosses over into what Cullen frankly thinks of as absurdity. Dorian and Krem have touched on it around Cullen. Two men from entirely different stations but seemingly the same in this one area. 

"You don't speak of her much," Cullen settles on saying instead, because he's not sure he's up to dealing with the intricacies of social hierarchy in Tevinter at the moment. Krem speaks often about his father. Sad memories, perhaps, given his status as a slave, but rarely does he ever mention the woman who gave birth to him.

"Not much to say," Krem replies and there's a shortness to his voice that Cullen might have missed if his eyes were open. It lurks under the dry humor of his words. "She did her best to dress me up so I could marry rich and take care of her. Didn't do right by her until I started getting the kind of pay to keep her in dresses for a while."

"You didn't even like the matches she tried making?" Cullen asks and nearly wants to hit himself for it. It strays right over the line he's been uncertainly toeing. Addressing Krem directly in a way Cullen's still not sure is insulting or not.

"Oh no, they were pretty enough to look at, but absolutely boring to talk to. Merchant sons, you know? Aren't taught anything more than how to count their money and make more of it. Besides," something hard and pointy, probably an elbow, digs into his side until Cullen cracks one eye open, "I like fighting too much to settle some merchant. Unless it's an arms seller, but they'd still have to be _really_ pretty or I'm likely to spend more time out on missions than home."

There's no sign of anger or injury at all. Just the same dry humor Krem touches everything with, and Cullen relaxes a little.

"You'd do that anyway," Cullen can't help the smile that curves up his lips, because he can't think of any of the Chargers going anywhere without Bull and Krem hovering over them.

"It wouldn't matter if I found someone to go with me," Krem says with a bright grin that makes him wince and shutter his eyes. 

"Yes," Cullen says and then can't think of another thing to say so he turns back to watch the pummeling and lets the silence stand between them.

~

"Hey, Cullen," Bull's hand is a heavy weight that drags his shoulder down without trying. "You got a moment?"

Cullen turns to face the man as the others continue on to the main hall. "Of course."

Bull leads him back into the now empty War Room, and Cullen picks up the sleek quill Josephine left behind. She'll search her desk for an hour before remembering where it is if he doesn't return it to its rightful place. "What did you need?"

"Huh, hold on," Bull leans against the table and crosses his arms. His brow furrows in dissatisfaction. "Never been in this kind of situation before so I'm a little lost for words."

"Situation?" Cullen sets the quill down and give the man his full attention. Mind going through anything he's heard lately that might concern him. There's plenty to go through but none seem particularly relevant. No more than usual threats to the Inquisitor's life that is. "What kind of a problem is it?"

"The kind of problem where you're a good guy, and I like you," Bull grumbles. Clearly annoyed even as his words throw Cullen as hard as any of Bull's shield bashes do. "Kinda takes the fun out of threatening to castrate you if you do anything stupid."

"I," Cullen blinks and looks Bull over closely, but the man is absolutely sincere. Which does nothing alleviate his confusion. Sharper now with alarm. "Why? What have I done?"

"Too soon?" Bull looks him over with an arched eyebrow before nodding sharply. "Yeah, too soon. Sorry about that. Let's forget this ever happened, and when it comes up again I should have something to say."

Bull has long legs that can eat up the ground when he wants them to, and he's gone before Cullen can question him further. He stares at the quill and tries to sort it out but his best thought lead to Sera setting this up somehow. It's left him as baffled as any conversation with her ever does.

~

Cullen should know better. No, that's an excuse. He _does_ know better. He just apparently keeps forgetting that he should never bet against an Antivan. Somehow he keeps forgetting the vow that's quickly become an almost weekly thing.

Josephine smiles brightly like a child at a candy seller's shop and nods expectantly down to the center of the table. "My winnings, Commander."

Cullen glares ruefully at the hand that was so damn good, but just not good enough to beat hers. "May I have my bucket, please?"

Blackwall reaches over Sera --who is closest to the bucket, but is busy laughing herself into an early death-- and passes the wooden bucket to him. Cullen shifts to scoot as close to the table as he can before reaching for his smalls. The last stitch of clothing he has left on him. The procedure is sadly familiar enough that his dangling bits aren't exposed for long as he throws the clothing on the pile with the rest of his things.

His dignity no longer comes to these weekly games.

"Well," Maxwell drawls out as Josephine neatly folds the items into a little bundle Cullen won't see again until the morning. His face nearly split in half from the wide grin he's been wearing since he stopped playing after losing his shirt. "Our Commander is completely undone," Dorian _brays_ with laughter and Cullen thinks hard about throwing something at him, but knows his aim is compromised. "I believe that's our signal to call it a night. Before we make any poorer decisions."

The ribbing and laughter is comfortable now though Cullen slaps out at Sera until she stops trying pinch him somewhere uncomfortable. They break up slowly. One by one, and a few as a pair. Cullen waits for them to clear out before standing. Thankful as always their games wait until the tavern is closed and the usual patrons are long gone. The perks of rank.

Walking while covering himself with a bucket is awkward but doable and Cullen stops at the stairs leading up in the tavern to try to recall the guard rotation. Some nights it's best for him to take the quicker route of the battlements. Others he finds himself skulking around the shadows of the courtyard.

"It's a cloudy night," Cullen nearly loses his grip on the bucket as he turns his head around. Krem's in his usual seat, feet propped up on a crate, bottle dangling from his fingers, and a toothy grin on his face. His eyes are nowhere above stomach height and Cullen turns to face him out of reflex. Though the bucket only makes the man snicker. "The only moon that'll be out will be yours. I'm sure you can make a run for it up on the walls."

"Thanks," Cullen mutters and knows that he's flushing a bright, embarrassed red. He can feel the heat of it as it crawls across his face and down his neck. "I thought you retired for the night an hour ago."

Krem rarely stays through the whole game. Too used to being up early for the last watch, he'd once confided. It also gave him an excuse not to deal with the stupidly drunk more than he had to.

"Forgot something," Krem holds up the still sloshing bottle in explanation. He's blatantly ogling Cullen and making no secret of it. "And when I came back for it you were already out of your shirt so I decided to stick around for once. Chief's right, you do look human without all that armor on."

"And I look a fool without the clothes," Cullen debates the merits of darting up the stairs over slinking out the front door. 

"A _pretty_ fool. Going to have to have some words with the Chief in the morning. He's been keeping vital information from me," Krem sits up and his boots fall to the floor with loud thuds. Sera's voice floats down from above. Indistinct but cross. "Well no one asked you!" Krem shouts back as he stands. A shade unsteady but still grinning wide. He takes a pull from his bottle and winks at Cullen. "Don't let me keep you from your shame filled walk back."

Krem settles back on his heels and give the impression he's willing to wait for Cullen to leave first, and Cullen groans before snatching what pride he has left. He's the fool who bet his clothing. He can take the shame of being seen walking about nude as his penance for it.

"A good night to you, Cremisius," Cullen says after straightening up. He then turns and walks up the stairs like he normally would. No slower and no faster even as the flush expands to his ears at the sharp whistle from below.

~

"I've heard the worst sort of rumor about you from a little bird," Dorian announces in an obvious ploy to stall. His fingers are dancing between the pieces on the board and Cullen keeps his gaze steady on them. Doesn't let himself be distracted or the mage will end up switching the pieces on him and protest his innocence with the kind of zeal and outrage that should be kept to more serious matters. 

"Do tell," Cullen doesn't let himself be distracted by the flash of light barely seen out of the corner of his eye. It's irrelevant and most likely Dorian's doing. "Wait, and actual bird of Leliana's or are we talking about someone else?"

It's a slight distinction but a necessary one regardless.

"It doesn't matter who I heard it from, just that I heard it," Dorian grudgingly makes his move and 'accidentally' knocks two others out of place. Cullen snaps his hand out to correct their placement before Dorian can muddle it up further. "The rumor goes that you are hopeless which we all know and are not the least bit surprised by. So I nearly tuned it out until an interesting clarifier was added on."

"And what would that be?" Cullen plays along even as he makes his next move quickly. Not giving Dorian time to settle back in his seat and plot. The man like to play for time when he's losing and pressing him often flusters him. A hard feat that Cullen thoroughly enjoys exploiting when he can.

"That you're a hopeless _romantic_ ," Dorian spits the word out thought Cullen's sure that has more to do with the fact he has to think up another plan than any distaste he has for the word. "Also not a surprise for anyone who has seen you make those sad puppy eyes at Krem, but I just thought you would like to know it's a rumor that's being talked about."

"I do not-!" Cullen jerks his eyes back down and catches Dorian trying to lift a blocked in pawn. He scowls until the piece is put back down before continuing in a calmer voice. "I do not make eyes at Krem."

Possibly, the words would sound more convincing if Cullen weren't so sure his ears are turning red.

"And I'm thinking about asking Mother Giselle to preside over my vows of chastity and giving up everything good that makes life worth living," Dorian drawls out with a smug smile as he places his piece with the same flourish he gives a particularly showy spell. "Cullen, I have eyes and I use them. It's clear to anyone who care to look. Granted, not many do, but I do like to think we are friendly enough that I can tell when you are needlessly pining."

"I am not," Cullen says and then reaches for a knight and moves it to put Dorian into check. A move the other man clearly had not been anticipating going by the way he devolves into some really filthy sounding Tevinter cursing.

~

Denial is not a strong suit for Cullen though. He's tried hiding within it often enough to know that by now. 

"I thought about writing a serial about you once," Varric remarks with a knowing smirk that Cullen thinks about punching off his face for several long minutes. The dwarf came in person this time to escort Cullen to the weekly game. "Too boring though. Plus I'm really not good at the sappy shit."

"Must you?" Cullen asks wearily.

"Yes, I _really_ must."

Cullen did not expect any other answer.

~

He cuts down on his alcohol consumption for the game, and nearly stops drinking entirely when Varric very unsubtly changes seats to allow Krem to join the table. He considers cutting down everyone else’s' drinking when they _all_ shift. Sprawling out and pushing around the table until Cullen's pressed right up against Krem's side with nowhere to go.

Smooth and subtle, Cullen knows now, are words that can only be applied to Leliana who is grinning gleefully at him from across the table. Proving that even she can occasionally forget their meaning. Cullen repeats his earlier lament for everyone, "Must you?"

"Yes," Maxwell states without the decency to try to look confused or innocent. "It was this or lock you two in one of the cells with some supplies."

"Told them you wouldn't mind the bars and chains, but they just wouldn't listen to me," Bull explains with a sigh that can be nearly felt as much as heard. "Even after I told them about that last time you got put in a cell with-"

"All right, you nosy bastard! We swore never to talk about the time you almost got married to that crazy bird smuggler," Bull winces and Maxwell swivels his head to fix him with a curious look. Krem tosses back his cup and stands. He plants his fists on the table and leans over it to glare Bull right in the eye. "I'm off, and I expect a round at dawn if I have to drag your hung over arse out myself."

"You gonna be _that_ cruel to Cullen?" Bull asks with a leer that leaves nothing about his meaning to the imagination. "Cold, Krem. Literally. I hear the Commander's still got a hole in his ceiling. Guy needs something warm to cuddle with in the morning."

Cullen groans at the laughter that gets from the table and feels cold along his side as Krem pushes away from the table. Mortification simmers gently until a calloused hand knots itself into the back of his collar and pulls him up. Krem pushes him towards the stairs with one hand and aims a vulgar gesture back at the table as he walks them both away. "Like those twins you swore were only looking for a warm spot to curl up next to for a few hours?"

"Twins?" Maxwell asks and the rest of what he says gets lost as Sera speaks up in outrage.

"You horned prick! You were supposed to send them to me!"

"I am sorry," Cullen starts and is cut off with a snort as Krem jerks his head up the stairs. He's smiling, Cullen notices when he turns for the next set.

"The Chief isn't one for subtlety," Krem says as they climb up to the third floor and are well out of hearing range of the others. He sounds resigned but affectionate as he says it and Cullen knows the feeling. "Apparently it's rubbing off on the Boss."

"Maker. I did not need that image, Krem," Cullen stops to rub at his eyes with a groan, because he doesn't _need_ to even imagine it. He's seen it and it still haunts his memories along with Cassandra's yelling.

"Rather think about me rubbing off on someone then, Cullen?" Krem asks in an even tone of voice that hits hard paired with both the image and the use of his name instead of title.

"I, no!" Cullen's grateful for the lack of light this late as he turns to Krem. Visible but indistinct enough to hide a multitude of embarrassing tics. Enough to give Cullen the confidence to correct himself. "Not just anyone."

"You?" Krem asks, and there's nothing more than straightforward interest in his voice.

"If you'd have me."

"Wasn't quite sure you'd be the type to enjoy being bent over or not," Krem says, and the first thought in Cullen's mind is not _'How?'_ but _'Yes!'_. Cullen swallows and the dry click his throat makes is loud. Krem's smirk turns devious and his hand is warm against Cullen's back as he pushes him up the stairs. "Clearly I was wrong and have some things to prepare."

~

The air outside is bracingly cool and Cullen enjoys it as much as the heat he can feel still soaking into him from Krem's hand.

"It's a nice night," Cullen hears the words come out of his mouth with a kind of muted horror reserved for his lesser nightmares. The ones that are more about giving a briefing in the War Room while completely naked than demons trying for his sanity.

"Have your nerves cracked?" Krem says after a long silence to better appreciate the inanity of Cullen's opening bid for the conversation. "Or is your sanity finally giving up on you?"

"Can't it be both?" Cullen answers a question with a question and stops walking to lean up against the walls. He likes it out here on the battlements. Seeing the mountains give way under the keep is a breathtaking and soothing sight, but he doesn't look outward today. "I'm rather inexperienced in, hm, relationships in general as it is. And the uncertainty that I'm doing, saying something wrong makes that worse. I don't know-"

Cullen cuts himself off with gritted teeth because he doesn't know far too much. Too much to lay out neatly in precise points so that they can be addressed easily. He's tried himself with a scrap of paper he ended up burning. More because the exercise was futile than anything else.

"Right then," Krem mutters. He steps back and looks first one way then the other. Long searching looks that apparently show him what he wants to see as he nods to himself before turning back to Cullen.

Cullen's head bounces off the stone of the wall as he's pushed into it with one hard shove. The fur lining offering a little protection that he doesn't get to appreciate before Krem's on him. Pressing him hard to the wall with body and lips. 

The kiss is fierce and forceful. Cullen gives into it as much out of want as to keep his lips from splitting open, and Krem _growls_

"Don’t worry that pretty little head of yours," Krem smirks. A lopsided thing that pulls the corner of his mouth up in a way that’s distracting in new ways now that Cullen knows how they taste and feel. "I’ll tell you what to do. No guessing or doubting at all. You’re a fighter. I’m sure you can follow orders as well as you give them. Right?"

"Yes," it’s a relief to hear and it has nothing on the way his gut tightens at the last sentence. Imagining the kind of orders Krem might give him when alone. "I can follow orders."

"Then we’ll get on just fine, you and I," Krem predicts with confidence and pushes away from him smoothly enough that Cullen isn't the least bit surprised when the soldier on wandering patrol comes through the door of the tower. The man salutes and continues on easily. Not seeing anything out of the ordinary though Cullen would swear it's written all over his face. "You should stop by the tavern for a drink tomorrow, Commander."

The invitation is casual and not one bit out of line from the hundred other invitations Krem has issued before. Cullen has to swallow to clear his tight throat when he responds though, because he knows that invitation won't end with just a drink or bit of food this time. "I'll have to see what I can arrange."

"You do that," Krem says and waits half a moment for the soldier to be lost in the dark to reach out rub his thumb against Cullen's lower lip. A wiping motion, over and done with quickly as he steps back with a nod.

Cullen tastes salt and the aftertaste of some wine when he licks his lips, and wonders if he'll be able to concentrate at all tomorrow.


	11. Upside-Down Kiss [Alistair/Cullen]

Cullen's stumbling back to the barracks from the privy --still mostly asleep-- when he hears a voice coming from the horse stables. Late night trysts in the hayloft are common. Common enough the senior knight instructors make regular checkups on it that don't actually deter the meetings. Cullen thinks it's an awful place for anything vaguely romantic and that the vegetable gardens the Sisters and Brothers tend is both better and more practical but not many of his peers ask for his opinion when it comes to things like this. Cullen usually ignores it as best he can. It's the frantic note to the muttering that convinces Cullen not to walk right on by and pretend he heard nothing this time though.

There's only one voice when Cullen eases through the cracked door, and a lamp gutters on a stool in the middle of it. Casting light on the still forms of the horses and a sight that is both bizarre and utterly expected. Anyone else, anyone at all, and Cullen would be surprised to come upon them dangling upside down in the stables at the middle of the night.

"Alistair," Cullen sighs the young man's name wearily. Unconsciously copying the tone of so many of their instructors. "What have you done now?"

"It wasn't my fault!" The denial is quick and automatic, and has half a chance of being true. He whirls his arms in the air and the momentum is enough to send him spinning. The ropes Cullen can now see tangled tight around his legs creak until he's mostly facing Cullen. His face is red. Either from embarrassment or from being upside down. His eyes are wide and pleading in a way no man his age should be able to pull off. "Help me?"

Cullen rubs his eyes hard before looking around. He drags a barrel over and finds a reasonably sharp blade that's normally used to pry rocks from the horses hooves. There's already hay on the ground and Cullen abruptly remembers that Alistair had been given mucking duties for punishment. "Have you been like this all night?"

"No," the ropes are truly tangled when Cullen examines them. Alistair grabs onto him by his trousers as he starts to spin again from Cullen's testing pulls. "Can't say how long I've been like this though. Kind of lost track with all the screaming for help that only scared off the stupid cat responsible for this."

"You're blaming this on a cat?" Cullen asks and lets himself smile only because Alistair likely won't be able to see it and thus won't be encouraged. Theoretically. He doesn't truly need encouragement to keep going where wiser men would pause. 

"Yes! Evil, beady-eyed thing. I think it's been bunking down for free out here for a while now."

That would explain the lower number of pests lately. Cullen doesn't press for more though because he's fairly sure he doesn't want to know. There's no undoing the rope by hand --as he'd suspected-- so Cullen carefully slides the knife under a strand and starts to saw away at it. Alistair's grip goes tight as he starts to spin again, almost throwing Cullen's balance off before he corrects it. He works as fast as he can but the blade is dull and the rope grows tighter the more he cuts off. Alistair's weight pulling the whole mess into a different configuration with each strand gone.

"Maker, did you roll in every rope coil we have?" Cullen shifts lower to ease the strain on his shoulder a bit. A pile of the cut rope builds up on the ground but he still can't find the load bearing one to free Alistair easily.

"Hurry. Please," something bumps into his stomach and he feels it move as Alistair groans. "I'm going to be sick!"

"Not on me!" Cullen pulls harder even as he resigns himself to being vomited on. Alistair's holding him far too tightly for an easy escape should it come to that.

Distracted, Cullen misses the way the rope starts to fray and split easier than it has been until the section he's holding slides out of his hand suddenly. It hisses softly as it moves and Alistair _drops_. The man's arms spasm and Cullen grits his teeth as it all seems to happen slow enough for him to know what's going to happen.

Alistair's weight goes one way and the barrel under Cullen's feet goes the other. He's weightless for a brief moment, and aware enough of it to throw the dagger far away, before the ground meets them with surprisingly unforgiving force for something that was only a few feet away. Cullen rolls on instinct but Alistair doesn't and he ends up painfully twisted. Half over and half under Alistair's heavier frame.

"Crap," Alistair manages to choke out after a moment of pain filled silence. He drags the word out excessively long and twists enough to dig his elbow or knee, maybe both, into Cullen's side. Cullen grunts and pushes out with all the force he can manage to roll the man off him, or at least away from his more vulnerable areas. "Thanks, Cullen."

"Yeah," Cullen brings his knees up and focuses on breathing for a bit. It feels like Alistair landed on his gut with all the weight the man has, and he needs just a moment to recover from that. Possibly several.

They're moments that Alistair obviously does not need. The man sits up and looms over him looking concerned. "Are you alright?"

"I am fine," or will be soon enough that it doesn't matter. There's no use being annoyed over it. The emotion isn't worth the minor inconvenience. Which is usually true for most things when Alistair is involved. Who is now hovering over Cullen with an even more worried look. Face slowly returning to normal with no obvious signs of ill effect. Cullen asks to be sure though, "And you?"

"Fine! Perfectly fine, maybe even fine-er? I can't say I'm fine-est, but I never really am that, so I guess I'm just fine," Alistair speaks quickly. The words rolling off his tongue faster than his mind can react. As good a sign as anything of his state of being. Just like the mischievous grin that replaces the concerned look as he kneels over Cullen's head. The alarming sight odd when viewed upside down. Cullen still tenses automatically at the sight of it. 

"Alistair...." Cullen says in a warning he doesn't complete.

"Oh! Ser Cullen, my savior!" Alistair clasps his hands under his chin as he flutters his eyes and coos in an obnoxiously high falsetto. "However can I repay you?"

"Don't," Cullen groans because the _ass_ is still going on about the incident from last week. The one Cullen's done his level best to forget despite the constant reminders from all sides about it.

One of the Sisters has an Orlesian brother, or cousin. Maybe son, no one was too sure of the details when he'd swept into the Chantry for some reason that was also vague. A distraction and potential threat, but not one that mattered to the recruits who were told to steer clear. An order which should have concluded the matter except for one thing. The man had brought his two daughters with him. Barely old enough to be called women they'd turned more heads than they should have with their cooing and fluttering. An annoyance easily ignored until they saw something that made that impossible. Both had taken a liking to Cullen when they found out how much their fluttering about truly bothered him. The tormenting had been relentless and amused everyone much to Cullen's great dismay. Ended only when one took the flirtations inappropriately far by engineering a fall and rescue. Tripping Cullen up with her layer of skirts and landing on his chest was bad enough, but the kiss she'd forced on him before he could extract himself nearly got him hung.

"Oh, Ser Cullen!" Alistair's high voice cracks and breaks with laughter as he leans down with puckered up lips and kisses him. More the press of his nose to Cullen's chin and the warm puffs of breath as the man laughs too hard to even _try_. Unasked for and made to poke fun of him just like the other kiss. Though he's not paralyzed by surprise for this one.

It's part spite, and part something else that Cullen doesn't want to examine too closely that has him grabbing the back of Alistair's head to pull him down. He stops the laughter with a firmer kiss that makes his lips tingle. His nose rests uncomfortably on Alistair's chin, and the man's lips are too slack from surprise to keep the kiss firm. Cullen dares to part his mouth and slowly lick across the opening he's being given once before pulling away completely.

Alistair _gapes_ down at him. His face is red again though for an entirely different reason this time. Cullen smirks up at him, feeling smug and satisfied as he rolls up to his feet. "You are most welcome."

Cullen leaves then without trying to find any other words to say. Quickly because the secret to dealing with Alistair is to leave him when he's speechless, or run the risk of having the man keep trying for the last word. It also allows Cullen the dignity of running away before he has to explain why he's slowly blushing darker than he had last week with the flirty woman whose name he's already forgotten was perched right in his lap. He'll truly never hear the end of it if Alistair sees that.


	12. Chest Kiss [Cullen/Dorian]

Cullen's chest is a map of scars. Old wounds and new ones carved into his flesh and leaving behind raised welts of shiny skin or divots of missing flesh. It's a story. One of pain and suffering. The twists and turns of which Dorian can plainly read on the body laid bare before him if he so chose to. Dorian does not chose to though. It's a story for him but truth for Cullen. A truth that sticks in him when asked but will eventually come out. Dorian is willing to wait for it.

Cullen has lived this story of pain, and it's hard to begrudge him the time to relate it or the tics that have come from it. Hard but not entirely impossible. Dorian slides a hand over to the not so fresh anymore bandage on his side and fixes Cullen with a hard look.

"It's been tended," Cullen protests automatically though he doesn't pull away from Dorian's probing fingers. "You need not put yourself out to tend me."

"Healing is not my forte," Dorian starts to peel the bandages away. Carefully because they've stuck as the blood and whatever salve he used dried. "I'm doing nothing more than practicing my nonexistent skills in this area on you."

He doesn't flinch under Dorian's touch but his body tenses. Dorian ignores it and lightly traces around the newly revealed wound. A clean slice from a blade. Deep enough that it will leave a scar but not deep enough to require stitches.

Cullen flinches still when a spell is cast near him or when a mage begins to draw energy to them. Whether he sees it or not he will flinch. His Templar training still sharp despite his protests otherwise. A nearly imperceptible flinch when he knows it's coming, and only slightly more obvious when he doesn't. Dorian doubts that many have noticed outside of their little circle.

"So I am to be your test patient then," Cullen says wryly to divert Dorian's attention from the tension lining his body. "Perhaps we should retrieve more bandages and a potion to go further."

"Your faith is touching," left on its own it would heal in weeks, and the scar left behind would be small. Comparatively. Healing is a basic skill all mages learn at least the vague basics of. Enough so that it is nothing to fold energy into the cut skin and pull the two sides together again. 

Weaving them together to be whole again is another matter. He's adept at it only from practice. Many of Alexius' early attempts to cure Felix had ended with him nearly sly in his own fingers off preparing herbs for potions. A menial labor but one that had been so very important at the time. As a result Dorian can handle fixing clean cuts but not much more than that.

"I'm not doubting your abilities," Cullen shivers but holds carefully still for Dorian. The nervous flex of his fingers in the blanket is unconscious and not personal at all.

"Yes you are," Dorian denies and runs a thumb over the whole skin. Imparting one last bit of energy to take away any lingering pain and take the shine out of the pink skin. The area is lighter than the skin around it but that will fade and blend in a matter of days. There will be no new scar on Cullen's body from this battle. "You know we do have actual healers on hand for this kind of mess. No need to rely on me for this."

Dorian already knows that will never happen though. The man would have to be unconscious on top of dying to allow the healers to touch him. None of their healers would be able to get the man where Dorian has him now. Relaxed under the fading remnants of magic and whole in body again. 

"You do well enough. The healers are better left for those who truly need their aid," Cullen's hands unwind from the sheets and move up to rest lightly on Dorian. Warm even through his robes. "My wounds were not that serious."

"You and I have very different definitions of serious," Dorian grumbles. He smoothes his hand over Cullen's chest again. Examining the spot critically but the man doesn't flinch, and Dorian can't hold the irritation. He bends down and places a firm kiss to the spot. Letting his lips linger in a vain hope that he won't have to do this again. That Cullen might actually accept a healing spell in the field instead of waiting until he gets back to Skyhold.

"I don't think so," Cullen rumbles as his fingers come up to thread into Dorian's hair. Mussing it but also pulling Dorian up and down to lay out fully on top of his body. His smile is warm and achingly sweet to look at. "I think we both have the same definition of serious."

Dorian disagrees heartily, but he can't argue effectively when his mouth is being occupied so very thoroughly.


	13. Romantic Kiss [Alistair/Cullen]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follows right after chapter 6 because I could not allow these romantic dorks to not get something nice for V-Day.

Alistair rolls the flower between his fingers. It's easy to do now that he's removed the thorns. That'd not been a happy hour for him when he found out the rose hadn't been dethorned and had held it rather carelessly. One of the kitchen servants had found him near the well trying to extract the blasted thing himself and had the unenviable job of helping him remove it. 

He can almost hear the rumors now. The big, bad Commander of the Gray felled by a tiny little flower. Reduced to tears and snotty warblings as a serving girl half his size tsked disappointingly and plucked the thing out. It'll do wonders for his reputation in Skyhold. 

Not like he has much of one to begin with though. He's pretty sure the whole mystique of having one of the Wardens who ended the last Blight around was well and truly killed his first day when a swarm of bees nearly killed him.

The rose stem catches a little on the rough cotton of the bandage on his thumb, and the petals flare a little wider with the motion. He looks down at it and smiles a bit before looking out over the keep from his position on the battlements. 

Color is bright and vivid where it's placed around the keep. Ribbons flutter with the wind, flowers sway in time, and everyone bustles around with a sense of eager energy that only comes out during a festivity. Spots or bands of color mark those who have received gifts early. Red colored ribbons, scarves, and trinkets marking the person as taken. Worn proudly to display they are loved and love in return.

There will be a feast later, and music to dance to. More trinkets and gifts will be exchanged throughout the day. Pretty words spoken and declarations of love made. Cheap words and declarations on some people's part, but Alistair doesn't think about those this year. 

No. This year, for perhaps the first time in his life, he's thinking about the words he wants to say. The declarations he wants to make.

His heart beats faster at the thought and the rose trembles a bit as he grips it tighter, twirls it faster. The petals are already bruised and a little ragged looking from how much he's been nervously handling it. He's going to break it or tear it irreparably if he doesn't stop.

But. 

But it's still beautiful. Imperfect and flawed. Scared by the rough handling of the world at large but still vivid and a wonderful sight to see. Something to look at in wonder and awe at how the wear only enhances it's beauty.

Poetic and over the top. Alistair wonders how much of that he could manage to get out in words before solidly shoving his boot in his mouth.

"Commander," Cullen's arrival isn't a surprise. Alistair heard the clank of his armor. Muffled by the furred surcoat but still easily heard on the relatively quiet battlements.

"Commander," Alistair echos with a grin as he turns to the man who could technically be called his superior. Though Alistair's fairly sure that's as far as it goes. The Inquisition has been very clear on their stance with the Gray Wardens, and how they don't want to limit them or their duties. "Nice day for a festival."

"I suppose so," Cullen's distracted for a moment as he turns to look over the keep with a vaguely disgruntled expression that melts to fondness far too fast for Alistair to be fooled. Cullen is every bit the same as Alistair. Another section off the same bolt of romantic sap cloth, and his annoyance at the loss of any productivity to the day is tempered. "There will be far too many broken hearts in the week to come to bear thinking about though."

Alistair laughs and looks down at the rose again. He stops spinning it and tries to respond but the words don't want to come. Not the ones he just thought of or the ones he's actually been practicing for a week now on the horses in the stable.

It's not like there's nothing there. No sign or inkling of reciprocation to daunt him. Alistair's held Cullen in his arms when the man was at his worst --more than once-- and held him even closer when his mind returned to sanity. He still remembers the weight of him, the heat of his body, and the slightly salty taste of sweat that lingered on Alistair's lips. 

There's an expectation there between them now. One neither of them has spoken of but weighs each conversation and tinges each glance. Alistair has seen Cullen open his own mouth to speak more than once only to close it and shift the conversation away to other things. Alistair's done it himself as well.

"Ah," the sound is an exhalation of breath almost lost to the wind but Cullen clears his throat harshly enough that Alistair doesn't miss it. "You received a token from someone?"

"No," the truth slips out easily enough and Alistair looks up to catch the hint of relief on Cullen's face. It bolsters his courage enough that everything else slides out with the usual grace and ease he's accustomed to. "Maker, no! Who would want to- Well, I mean, I know people would but I wouldn't want them to. I always thought this day should really mean something. It's a day meant for love, right? Who wants a token that is not truly meant or is meant only with pity? I mean, pity! Frankly I'm surprised there isn't more violence than broken hearts the next day. Which is probably why all the candy sellers stay open so long afterwards now that I think of it. No better way to erase the taste of pity than with sugar."

Cullen laughs and Alistair basks in the achievement because this is not the light laugh he gives when he thinks he should be laughing. This is the high laugh that stutters and ends in a small, barely stifled snort he gives only when he truly thinks something is funny. "If it's not a token from your admirers then why do you have it?"

"To give," Alistair says and then turns so he can hold out the flower to Cullen. It's a truly sad looking flower now that Cullen's actually here to see it, and Alistair winces. All the poetic thoughts from earlier fleeing his mind as he realizes exactly how much like a gesture of mockery this might seem without the context. "Sorry. I know it's not the best looking one of the bunch, and, wow, I didn't think I'd done that much damage to it at all. I've just been holding it. you know what? Let me just go back and get anoth-"

The rose is gone from his hands and Alistair stutters to an awkward halt because Cullen's holding it and looking at it with a look on his face that makes the necessary thought process to talk impossible. He looks at the rose with an amazed expression as he holds it carefully like the fragile thing it actually is. A warm light comes into his eyes as he smiles before looking up at Alistair.

"Yeah," Alistair says shakily and he knows --knows!-- that he doesn't need anything poetic at all, because Cullen's thinking the same things he was just a moment ago. "So, just to be clear, before I say something to make me want to hurl myself off the walls, I'd like it very much if you wore my token for today."

"For today?" Cullen asks and his cheeks are tinting with a red that has nothing to do with the wind.

"Well, I'd ask forever if I thought I could get away with it," Alistair grins back and knows his face is getting the same red treatment. Maybe anyone who passes by will just think they escaped a really cold wind. "But I don't want to push my luck with that. I think I'd be pretty lucky to just have the one day really. Any more luck than that and something terrible would have to happen to me to balance it all out."

"I think enough terrible things have happened to allow it," Cullen says and some of that light in his eyes dims, but only for a moment before he's smirking and crowding up into Alistair's space. Backing him firmly up against the wall. "Forever should be a small enough price to pay for that."

Alistair wants to say something to that. Something witty and nice, but it's hard to talk when he's being kissed. Hard to want to talk at all when Cullen leans his whole body against him and their lips slot together perfectly. The warmth of their bodies igniting a fire in his chest as he holds the man close and the scent of the rose makes him dizzy enough to believe forever just might be possible.


	14. Stomach Kiss [Carver/Cullen]

There is nothing _remotely_ appropriate about this. A hint of stubble scrapes down Cullen's skin as Carver drops to his knees, mouth dragging down with the motion. His blue eyes dark as they stay fixed on Cullen even as he reaches for the new belt cinched too tight. Cullen swallows hard and presses against the wall behind him with sweaty palms and doesn't stop him.

The belt gives with an ease that's startling only because Cullen is still too used to all the complicated buckles and ties of the Order's armored uniform. The leather trousers and broad sword belt are simpler articles of clothing he hasn't worn in well over a decade now, but Carver doesn't fumble them the way Cullen had when he dressed earlier.

It's a strangeness he must become familiar with all over again. He's made his choice. The full body armor with the symbols of the Order hammered into every inch of it lies in the rooms behind him. Rooms that will go to another now, Carver perhaps, if the Gallows don't fall first.

It likely will though. With the remaining mages following Cullen and about a quarter of the knights turning in their own shields as well it's not likely that the Gallows will last the rest of the year.

Teeth scrape down his hipbone and Cullen jerks at the faint pain of it. Torn right out of his wandering thoughts. His poor attempt to distance himself from this act he's not actually trying to stop even as his ingrained sense of duty screams to push the younger man away.

His belt falls to the floor with a clang that echoes, the sword is handled with far more care. The sound is enough to sting a reflexive reaction from Cullen despite his indecision. He gets a hand on Carver's head and does not marvel at the softness of it as he pushes. "Wait, this is no-"

"Shut up," Carver's voice is hoarse and fierce as his gaze when he looks up at him. Face focused and there's anger there. So much anger that Cullen's only ever seen the man direct towards his brother before. It falters slightly as Cullen says nothing. A bit of uncertainty entering it and there's distance between them now. Not physically but there all the same. "Unless you really mean it I don't want to hear another damn word."

The words catch in Cullen's throat.

It's inappropriate. Carver is _his_ recruit. He sponsored his request and mentored the young man through his training all the way to claiming his knighthood. He's still considered a junior knight even now that he's one of the most experienced ones left still alive. A knight under Cullen's command. Only....

Cullen's not a knight anymore. He's neither Templar nor Knight-Captain. No longer Carver's superior and perhaps that is what prompted this.

Cullen allows himself to look down on Carver. Still on one knee before him. The fingers of one hand still under the laces of his right boot, and the other fisted in the now loose folds of his trousers. Holding them up as he waits for an answer. The brush of his knuckles against bare skin and the wash of his heated breath a statement of intent that's unmistakable.

It's an adjustment of thinking because Cullen has not thought of this before, not with Carver. With one notable exception, Cullen is not in the habit of looking for such things in those around him. Not unless they seek him out first. A rare occurrence that always takes him off guard and his reaction --flustered only because he's ill prepared-- usually ends the encounter before it's begun. Usually but not always as Carver proves by waiting. Perhaps not patiently but stubbornness can counted as a virtue in Kirkwall.

The stubble Carver seems to always cultivate scratches the pads of Cullen's fingers as he reaches for the man's face. Cullen says nothing still. If he tries, he's sure he'll only start in on how they _can't_ out of sheer habit.

Carver doesn't need his words though, the touch is enough. His smirk burns against the muscles of Cullen's stomach as his hands fly to life again. Cullen's knees buckle and his own hands get to work with the buckles and closures he's still so familiar with. With the bare skin he's not familiar with just yet.

It's not appropriate at all but it's no longer Cullen's place to care about such things.


	15. Underwater Kiss [Corypheus/Cullen]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, yes, implied death and dark content here. Such a terrible idea. What could have been in that dark future. Anyway, the pairing really is only there if you squint and allow yourself to think bad, bad things about Corypheus. I should not be allowed to think those things really.

In the end he breaks every promise he ever made. The others, to himself, and even to the Maker.

Cullen turned back to lyrium when Orlais fell, doubled the dose when the demon armies had overrun Haven, and hadn't said a word when Fiona's mages turned to blood magic in the very end despite how hard he'd argued against it. It was a useless last strike that hadn't worked even with all the inside help Fiona's people could provide. The Inquisition was overrun and utterly destroyed.

Cullen knows why he was spared. The intention of keeping a handful of them had been clear in the gloating eyes of the Venatori cultists. It'd just been hard to care overmuch at the time filled as he was with far too much lyrium and no place at all to let all that energy go while they bound him with far too many spells to purge. At least not until they chained him to a solid spire of glowing red lyrium.

It had burned. The lyrium of the stone fighting with what was already in his veins. Tendrils of corruption greedily sinking into him and being fought off immediately. Less successfully as the days wore on and his reserves ran dry.

Cullen thinks he might have screamed the day the blue in his veins collapsed under the relentless tide of red around him. He thinks he did but it's hard to remember anything after that. It feels like he's underwater. Under a pond made up of thick red water that curls around his limbs and pulls him deeper and deeper with every breath he takes. It fills his eyes and ears. Muting the world around him and imprisoning him in his own mind. 

They come back for him eventually, and Cullen doesn't know he's being unchained until the shift of his body makes nausea roll through him. Hands, cold and hard, catch him before he falls but he barely notices them. The world is red and the men dragging him away from his cell are lost in it.

He's lost in an entire ocean of red lyrium and there's nothing around him that can break through it. Despair is familiar to Cullen. Bitter and heavy without even the chance of hope to lighten it.

The world flips around him as he's released, but Cullen keeps his feet under him even as his head falls to his chest. He's breathing hard. He can tell from the way his chest moves but he can't really hear it. The red sea roils around him with something more than just being moved for the first time in- 

Cullen can't even say how long. Not with any sort of confidence.

"Mortal."

The voice cuts through the red like a well honed blade. Parting the silence with a force that makes his heaving lungs still at the power of it.

The Elder One regards him disdainfully from his throne. The oversized seat made of the rotting corpses of the fallen to accommodate his monstrous frame. Corypheus, as his faithful cultists call him, is clear in the red haze the world has become. His twisted features all that Cullen can see now, and the shackles still on his hands are not needed. Cullen could not strike out at the magister if he tried. It's all he can do to keep his feet under him now.

Blood tipped, clawed fingers curl in a beckoning gesture and the red deep inside his veins lurches to obey. Cullen groans as he walks forward. Reluctant and fighting a battle he's already lost a dozen or more times. Not stopping until Corypheus' hand curls around the back of his head. The sharp claws holding him still so that he cannot look away from the eyes studying him intently. Distant but fascinated as a man studying some new and exotic insect.

The hand is broad enough to engulf his whole head and the strength in it could crush his skull without a thought. Cullen wishes it would though he knows better than to hope for it.

"Your Inquisition has failed," the monster's scarred lips twist in a smirk, and Cullen chokes as he leans close. The heat of his breath is foul with corruption and the red in Cullen _glows_ at it. "The best that man had to offer and you are finished. Your army lies in ruins and nothing is left to stop the rest of the world from bowing down before their new god as has always been intended."

"You are no god," Cullen manages to grit out through the compulsion to remain silent. It hurts to say but Cullen revels in the small defiance.

Corypheus laughs. Cold and terrifying as he sits back in the throne. Back as straight as his corrupted bones allow, and hand maddeningly gentle around Cullen. Pointedly so.

"No," the magister agrees far too easily. "Not yet. I must still open the Fade to take what is mine."

Cullen doesn't understand. The Fade is already open. Has been open since they lost the Herald. Demons flooding the world faster than they could keep up with even before the Venatori raised up a demon army somehow.

"And there will be no one to interfere with the sacrifice this time," Corypheus continues though he hardly seems to care if Cullen hears or understands as he rises. A strangely elegant motion that leaves him towering over Cullen. "Kneel before me mortal."

The hand leaves. Uncurling from Cullen's head finger by finger and there's a rushing sound in his ears. They're not alone as Cullen had thought, but the figures of the men around him are lost in the returning waves of red as clarity --he hadn't noticed it returning to him but it had for one brief moment-- recedes. The red lyrium in him echoing and pulsing in time with the command.

Kneel.

Kneel before the monster. _Kneel before his god._ Maker, but Cullen wants to kneel with the same longing ache he felt when he went off lyrium for that short time.

_Kneel._

The compulsion is beyond his ability to fight and he feels his knees bending even as he tries to fight. His defiance shattering into a thousand shards of glass that grind and cut him to ribbons as he chokes on a washed out rage. His knees touch the stone too easily and the bloodied claws are back in his sight. Curled around something round.

"Be thankful," Corypheus soothes darkly. "Your sacrifice will bring this world the god it so desperately needs. Your death will have glorious meaning. Far more so than the lives of those you threw away in a pitiful attempt to stop my victory."

There are hands on him. Holding him unnecessarily still. The red lyrium _sings_ with a joy that is not his as he stares up at Corypheus. The twisted smile makes him tremble even as his body leans forward. His mind slipping back under the weight of the red even as he feels his lips press reverently to the clawed fingers wrapped around a humming orb. The taste of blood, corruption, and lyrium is the last thing Cullen knows.


	16. Goofy Kiss [Hawke/Cullen]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the goofy kiss slot. Can't tell me you get any goofier than drunk Hawke.

Cullen has been a Templar for many years and he's been through a very wide variety of situations. Wide enough that he'd thought nothing would ever truly be able to surprise him anymore.

That was before he was sent to Kirkwall, and before he met a frustratingly untouchable apostate named Hawke.

"Hey," said apostate drawls with a grin that doesn't belong in the Gallows at all. Neither does the overly friendly way he throws an arm over Cullen's shoulder. Using the weight of his body to hold him still so that Cullen will have to really work at throwing him off if he wants to be free. "Is that a sword in your belt or you happy to see me?"

"Yes to the first, no to the second," Cullen sighs. Hawke is a decent man for a mage. His ideals are overly optimistic at times and lead him to stepping into the strangest of situations. Some of which Cullen himself has benefited from.

Cullen does not let the man's usefulness blind him to his faults though, and he does count Hawke's seeming insanity as a fault. Both the Knight-Commander and the Viscount see it as an acceptable fault though, and Hawke --and to a lesser extent his companions-- are left alone.

He wonders if Meredith would be so willing to overlook Hawke so much if she ever had to meet him when he came to the Gallows. In the middle of the day with several known apostates in tow with him. 

"Aw you don't mean that," Hawke stumbles even though he's holding absolutely still and Cullen can smell it now. He's fairly sweating alcohol all over Cullen as he pouts. He aims a comically wide eyed gaze left first, and then right. Cullen doesn't know which of his crew he brought along today but he can hear one familiar snicker among the sounds behind him. "He doesn't mean that. He _loves_ me!"

"No. No I really do-"

It's hard to talk with several stones of drunken apostate attached to his face like a barnacle. Cullen tastes something foul and strong enough to straighten his hair as Hawke messily and loudly kisses him. It's all tongue and no skill at all. Leaving him feeling wet and very dirty when the noble pulls back with a deranged grin. 

"Nugs," Hawke laughs a little before his eyes roll up and into the back of his head. He crumples to the ground in an ungainly heap of robes and limbs. Cullen staggers from the loss of weight but two hands steady him. One at his shoulder and one at his lower back.

"What just happened?" Anders eventually asks, pulling hastily away when Cullen straightens up. Voice rich with laughter he doesn't give voice to but Cullen hears anyway.

"Is he drunk?" The elf, Fenris Cullen thinks is his name, asks. Remarkably calmly given the situation, but then he wasn't the one being assaulted.

Varric pats his lower back once before shrugging. He looks as amused as he does frustrated. "Don't look at me. He was sober on the docks. I swear it!"

Fenris grunts and kneels at Hawke's side. His hands disappearing for a moment before coming out with a small flask. He uncaps it and looks into it, nose wrinkling and Cullen can smell the alcohol from where he's standing. Stronger than what he got off of Hawke. "I'm surprised he didn't fall off the ferry with this rot in him."

A drunk apostate wandered into the Gallows to kiss Cullen before passing out. Cullen only wishes he could call this out of the ordinary. He scrubs at his mouth roughly and is just thankful that Hawke had found him in one of the alcoves with only a few Tranquil around to see it. "I don't care. Just get him away from me."

"Aw," Anders drawls out mockingly as he bats his eyes at Cullen with the kind of twist of hi mouth that always got him in trouble in Ferelden. "Don't you _love_ him anymore Cullen?"

"Let's go grab a cart or something, Blondie," Varric intercedes quickly. Pushing the man away as Cullen's right hand twitches on reflex. Anders skids back a few steps before going with the push. "Unless you _want_ to carry Hawke back with Fenris?"

Cullen shakes his head and turns on his heel to walk away. He doesn't really care how they get Hawke away, but he is absolutely certain he'll be far happier not knowing the outcome to this. Like most things involving Hawke really.

A fact he's slowly grown used to over the years. Along with all the other insanity that comes with dealing with the man.


	17. Collarbone Kiss [Zevran/Cullen]

"Are you the Knight-Captain?"

"Yes," Cullen answers. Wary even as he turns to face the man asking because the accent is Antivian, and caution is never amiss when dealing with anyone from that country. "Who is asking?"

The man is an elf and does not appear disturbed at all when Cullen's hand drops to his sword. Gripping the hilt instead of resting it there because the elf is _armed_. He smiles like a nug oil salesman and raises both hands up. Palms out with a flourish that's showy in showing off that he means no harm. "A friend."

"I know the names and faces of my own friends," Cullen responds flatly. The day has been long and he's really not up to dealing with the usual cryptic word play everyone seems to enjoy. "And I know neither from you. So tell me who you are and why you seek me."

The elf reels back. Hands fluttering over his chest in an overdramatic display of hurt. "Do not know me? I am hurt, Ser Cullen, that you would not remember a face as handsome as mine. Though I suppose you were under a lot of distress at the time. So I can be convinced to forgive you. I am a rather forgiving man after all."

Distress? There's a twist to the word, an entire world of inflection he can't follow for a few seconds. A few blissful seconds until something about the angle of the man's jaw triggers a memory.

Kinloch.

He remembers Cousland and Alistair. Wynne next to them and urging the Wardens on after Uldred. He remembers less of the people that had followed them, but he thinks there was an elf with them. They are not pleasant memories that Cullen cares to dwell on overly much if he can help it.

He usually can't help it but few men can control their nightmares.

"I would hardly call us friends," Cullen says but he does ease his grip a bit and turns more fully to address the man. "And if I was given your name then, I am afraid I do not remember it."

"Ah, well, that is understandable. To be honest I am not exactly sure we all stuck around long enough for proper introductions what with my Warden friends not wanting to leave the Archdemon waiting," his smile belies the absolute seriousness of his words and he sweeps and elaborate bow that doesn't actually have him take his eyes off Cullen. "Zevran Arainai. Formerly of the Antivan Crows and currently of, and for, myself. With a few favors done for my friends of course."

"Of course," Cullen repeats doubtfully and thinks about taking a step back as the man closes in. Wrapping a friendly seeming hand around his arm. Pulling gently to guide him. 

Somewhere.

Where doesn't matter honestly as Cullen has no intention of going anywhere with a man who just admitted he was an assassin. Zevran smiles still even as Cullen plants his feet. Spinning so that it looks like he was the one who decided to stop. "And I would still know your purpose in seeking me out now."

"Ah, just a little message running for a friend of ours. A former Templar turned Warden asked me for a favor," Zevran steps forward as a group of sailors tromps by. Arms laden with crates and goods, and not giving any care at all to who they might be walking over. Cullen moves back with the motion and finds himself with his back to a wall faster than he thought he should. "A favor for him for a favor for you," Zevran's grin grows as he flows right back into the space Cullen gained. Placing both hands high against Cullen's chest plate. Provocatively so, and the man knows it going by the light of laughter lurking in his eyes. "Strange how these things end up working out, no?"

Alistair had promised Cullen information weeks back, but he'd expected Alistair himself to bring it himself. The Warden was often in and out of Kirkwall for many reasons. More so since an entrance to the Deep Roads was found near the city.

"Yes," Cullen tries to step back again but the wall is still there, and the street is too crowded. He blinks and frowns down at the man whose smile is full of unspoken promises that even Cullen can read. The fingers curling over the edge of his armor are nothing short of a shouted proposition. "Well then if you could hand over-"

"I could," Zevran purrs and the street is clear. There is no longer any excuse at all for the way the man winds closer. Leaning in enough that his lips press and drag over the metal of the armor over his chest. His voice is low and suggestive but clear enough for Cullen to hear. "Or we could go to my room for a few hours of fun and I could give you the letter afterwards."

"I, why would..." Maker, why did this always happen to him? Backed up to a wall with an overly flirtatious person preventing a graceful escape is an event Cullen is far too familiar with for his own peace of mind. "No! I would rather not!"

"Pity," Zevran says with a sigh Cullen would be able to feel against his neck were it not for the armor. He leans back and Cullen can hear the crinkle of paper as something is pressed under his breast plate. The folded edges scrape against a bit of skin bared at his collar. "Perhaps another time."

Zevran smiles brilliantly again and is gone just as fast as he appeared. Cullen blows out a breath before pushing away from the wall to head back to the Gallows. He leaves the letter hidden until the door to his small room closes behind him. Trusting that whatever Alistair had found that made him turn to an assassin is sensitive enough to require the privacy. Most things dealing with black-market lyrium needed it after all.


	18. Nose Kiss [Anders/Cullen]

"You are ridiculous," Cullen says with all the grave solemnity of a Revered Mother giving benedictions to those sentenced to death.

The runaway mage neither startles nor looks up from where he’s crouched on the ground. Appearing totally at ease with being found not even five miles away from the Circle. Cullen’s not even part of the search party that left to go after him.

To the North because of reasons he knows nothing of because he’s _not_ supposed to be hunting the mage. He’s supposed to be travel ling to the caravan outpost with the week’s requisition orders and the dispatches from the Tower. A brief march out and back in time for dinner.

"No, you are ridiculous," Anders retorts. Barely any attention paid to it which blunts his normally sharper tongue. The wide, ecstatic grin he’s wearing doesn’t help either. "Isn’t he ridiculous? Yes he is! Big, old ridiculous Templar. Nothing at all like you precious little things!"

The gray cat curled up in the crate is familiar. The cat wanders the lower floor of the Tower and the island outside of it. Hunting mice and other pests. She purrs contentedly as she regards them both briefly with slit eyes. The squirming mass of newly born kittens take her and the mage’s full attention as they struggle to latch onto a teat.

"Did you bring her out here to give birth?" Cullen asks unnecessarily because he knows it to be the truth already. The Tower has three other cats and discussion on what to do with the pregnant gray has been going on since her stomach started showing. There’s not enough of a pest population to support more cats, and talk had turned to getting rid of the litter. Not all of that talks had been gentle either.

"No, I brought her out here so I could drown the kittens myself," Anders stops fussing long enough to scowl up at him. Neck craned up awkwardly. "This is not an escape attempt by the way. This is a rescue mission. It doesn’t count!"

"Ser Bethesaide has left to retrieve you," in the opposite direction and Cullen wonders now because that means the mage’s phylactery wasn’t used. Not at first at least. The man’s record of finding apostates and runaway mages is both impressive, and something most of them are tired of hearing the man brag about. Finding a mage without the use of his phylactery will just be the next step up for the man, and Cullen is not surprised by the act or how spectacularly it will fail him. "I think it has already been counted."

Anders frowns before his eyes drop to the dispatch bag. "You found me on accident!" He sounds delighted as he laughs. "Oh, Biff’s going to be so mad!"

Bethesaide will be, but he’s also the one who had been most vocal for the plan of drowning the litter. Cullen’s fairly sure that plays no small part in the mage’s glee at angering the Templar sent out to hunt him down. He leans over the kneeling mage and counts five squirming forms. One nearly toothless maw gapes open for a bit and releases a tiny pitiful noise before diving back in. Cullen does not consider himself a cat person, but knows that he could not go with any of the darker options after being faced with that.

"You’re planning to leave them here?" Cullen asks and doesn’t permit himself to kneel down to pet the kittens himself. Anders is fussing enough over them.

"Well not here," Anders drawls out. Voice rising slightly as he looks up again. Smile the kind of innocent Cullen knows only comes out when someone is about to ask a favor. A large favor. "I was going to take her to the outpost, but she was having some trouble with the last kitten and had to stop."

Anders is wheedling and asking without actually saying anything. Cullen shakes his head and the mage carefully picks up the crate the cats are in. There’s a chorus of mewls as the shift upsets them all, and Cullen doesn’t step back fast enough to avoid it as it’s shoved into his chest. "What are you-"

"You cannot say no to this face," Anders coos as he reaches in to lift one of the kittens up and all but shoves it in Cullen’s face. A small paw bats at his upper lip as the furry head bumps against his nose. It’s mewing is high and tiny. "It’s just another mile or two until this little one gets a nice, new home. Dry barn, plenty of rats, and no one looking for an excuse to drown him."

"Fine, but you are staying close to me," Cullen caves in as much to the wheedling tone Anders uses as the pitiful mews of the kittens. "Get the cat out of my face."

The kitten disappears from his face and he has no time to dodge as Anders takes it’s place. Placing a dry, noisy kiss on his nose before tucking the kitten back into the crate. "That's what I like about you. You're _reasonable_."

Cullen flinches back too late and is left watching the mage's back as he spins around to lead the way. The kittens aren't feeding anymore. They're curled up little balls of sleeping fluff now. The mother is still purring, but her eyes are closed. Cullen should be turning right back around to escort Anders back to the Tower. He should be discouraging the mage from any future attempts to leave its protection. He should but he won't.

He's often been accused of being too soft hearted, and it's true, but Cullen has a hard time seeing the harm in saving the crate full of soft furred felines. 

"Reasonable," Cullen mutters to himself with a scoff as he follows. Keeping a sharp eye on Anders the whole way because he might be soft hearted, but he's not stupid. "Reasonable won't save me from being lashed you know."

"Eh, you can handle it," Anders says with a careless wave over his shoulder, and Cullen would not be surprised if the man was smirking. "Big, bad Templar like you can handle anything really."

Cullen scowls and quickens his pace. Keeping his eyes locked on the mage he's now _sure_ is going to try to slip away somehow, somewhere.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [All For A Kiss Chapter 10: Forceful Kiss [Krem/Cullen] [PODFIC]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3764242) by [Opalsong](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Opalsong/pseuds/Opalsong)




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